
Class J_ 

Book 



A 

COMPENDIUM tf 



ENGLISH LITERATUBE, 



CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, 



SIR JOHN MANDEYILLE 



WILLIAM COWPEIl. 



CONSISTING- OF 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OE THE AUTHORS, SELECTIONS FROM THEIR 

WORKS, WITH NOTES, EXPLANATORY, ILLUSTRATIVE, AND 

DIRECTING TO THE BEST EDITIONS AND TO 

VARIOUS CRITICISMS. 



0E6IQNED AS A TEXT-BOOK FOR THE HIGHEST CLASSES IN SCliOOLS AND FOR JUNIOR CLASSES IX 
COLLEGES, AS WELL AS FOR PRIVATE READING. 



CHARLES DrCLEVELAND. 



STEREOTYPE EDITION. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

E. C. & J. BIDDLE & CO., No. 508 MINOR ST. 

1861. 



?*& 



; 



is* 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1MB, by 

CHARLES D. CLEVELAND, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



CLEVELAND'S SERIES OF CQMPENDIUMS OF ENGLISH 
AND AMERICAN LITERATURE 

CONSISTS OF 

Compendium of English Literature. 762 pp., large 12mo. 

Comprising English authors from the 14th to the 18th century inclusive. 
English Literature of the Nineteenth Century. 778 pp., large 12mo. 

Comprising living English authors, and those who have died in the 
19th century. 

Compendium of American Literature. 

Comprising American authors from the earliest period of American 
literature to the present time. 



STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON AND CO. 

PHILADELPHIA. 

COLLINS, PRINTBB. 



Transfer 

Engineers School Uby» 
June 29,1931 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



The following work is, perhaps, as much the offspring of necessity, as of a 
love for the subject. In 1834, very soon after I opened my School for Young 
Ladies in this city, I felt greatly the want of a book to give my first or "finish- 
ing ' ?lass a knowledge of the best British Poets and Prose writers, arranged 
iu a chronological order, to show the progress of the English language, with 
short accounts of the authors and of their works, and such notes as would 
direct the reader to the best editions of the writers, to the various criticisms 
upon them, and to other books upon kindred subjects which might be read 
with profit. But such a work I could not find. Accordingly, in 1838, I 
printed, solely for the use of my pupils, a small syllabus of the names of 
most of the British authors, with the dates of their birth and death, arranged 
under the different sovereigns. From this syllabus I delivered a series of 
lectures, from time to time, until I had gone through the reign of Elizabeth, 
when I determined, about four years ago, to prepare, as soon as I could, a 
work like the present. But numerous avocations have, until now, prevented 
nie from completing my design. 

I have felt it to be a duty to myself to give this brief history of my book, 
lest it should be supposed that the hint of it was taken from Chambers's 
" Cyclopedia of English Literature,"' recently reprinted in this country. On 
the contrary, it is apparent, that, years before that work was published, I had 
matured the plan of this, and Lad gathered materials for it. Besides, the 
" Cyclopedia," excellent as it is, is on a different plan, and far too voluminous 
for the object for which the "Compendium" is intended: yet the two, so far 
from conflicting with each other, may be mutual aids ; for I should hope that 
my own work would give the reader a greater longing to extend his inqui- 
ries into the same most interesting subject — one so rich in every thing that 
can refine the taste, enlarge the understanding, and improve the heart. 

In making selections for my work, I have not been prevented from insert- 
ing many pieces because they had previously been selected by others ; for I 
did not deem myself to be wiser, or to possess a better taste, than hundreds 
who have gleaned from the same rich field. Hence, while much, to the 
generality of readers, will be new, some extracts may also be found that will 
be familiar. But, like old friends, their re-appearance, I hope, will be hailed 
with pleasure. Besides, I have constantly endeavored to bear in mind a 
truth, which even those engaged in education may sometimes forget, that 
what is well known to us, must be new to every successive generation ; and, 
therefore, that all books of selections designed for them, should contain a 
poition of such pieces as all of any pretensions to taste have united to admire. 
Milton's " Invocation to Light," Pope's " Messiah," Goldsmith's " Village Pas- 
tor," and Gray's "Elegy" are illustrations of my meaning. 

But if any one should miss some favorite piece, let him reflect that I could 
not put in every thing, and be assured that often, very often I have felt no 
little pain in being compelled, from my narrow limits, to reject pieces of 
acknowledged beauty and merit. Let him but propose to himself, too, the 
task of bringing the beauties of English Literature into a duodecimo of seven 
hundred pages, and I am sure he will be little inclined to censure my defi- 
ciencies. I say not this to deprecate criticism. On the contrary, I invite it, 
and shall be glad to have all the faults in the work— both of omission and 
commission — faithfully pointed out. 

3 



4 PREFACE. 

In the preparation and execution of this work, I trust I have not been un 
mindful of the great, the solemn responsibility that rests upon him who is 
preparing a book which may form the taste, direct the judgment, and mould 
the opinions of thousands of the rising generation ; and I hope and pray that 
it may contain not one line, original or selected, which can have the least 
injurious effect upon a single mind; not one line which, "dying, I might wish 
to blot;" — but that, on the contrary, it may render good service to the cause 
of sound education ; may exert, wherever read, a wholesome moral influ- 
ence ; and impress upon the minds of the young, principles essential to their 
well-being and happiness for time and for eternity — principles in harmony 
with everlasting truth. 

CHARLES D. CLEVELAND. 

Philadelphia, November 2, 1847. 



PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION, 



Though it is but ten months since the first edition of fifteen hundred 
copies of the "Compendium" was published, it is now exhausted. For the 
great favor with which it has been received, I am truly grateful, and have 
felt that I could return my thanks in no way more suitable than by endeavor- 
ing to make the second edition (now to be in a permanent form) as much 
better as my experience in the use of the first edition, further reading and re- 
search, and the suggestions of many literary friends would enable me to do. 
Accordingly, the present stereotyped edition will be found to be considerably 
enlarged, and I would hope materially improved. To state all the additions, 
however, would be impracticable in the limits of a preface. I must therefore 
confine myself to the most important. 

First. There are in this edition, numerically, seventy-six more pages than 
in the first; but owing to a trifling enlargement of the page, and to the notes 
being printed in a smaller type, there are, at least, one hundred and fifty 
more pages of the same size and type as the first edition. Yet for all this, 
no advance in the price is contemplated by the publishers. 

Second. Thirty-five new authors have been added; they are the following:— 
John Gower, James I. of Scotland, John Still, Queen Elizabeth, Sir Thomas 
Oveibury, Francis Beaumont, Lady Elizabeth Carey, John Fletcher, John 
Donne, Michael Drayton, George Herbert, Gervase Markham, William Ha- 
bington, Richard Lovelace, Catherine Philips, Sir William Davenant, Marga- 
ret Duchess of Newcastle, Edward Hyde Earl of Clarendon, Owen Felltham, 
Robert Leighton, Anne Killegrew, Henry Vaughan, Anne Finch, Esther Van' 
homrigh, George Sewell, John Arbuthnot, Elizabeth Rowe, Thomas Yalden, 
Elizabeth Toilet, Lady Montagu, Catherine Talbot, Thomas Chatterton, Tobias 
Smollet, Mrs. Greville, William Pitt Earl of Chatham. 

Third. Many new selections will be found from the prose writings of the 
poets given in the first edition — from Chaucer, Wyatt, Southwell, Spenser, 
Sandys, Gay, Gray, Cowper, and Sir William Jones. These, with the prose 
selections from other poets previously given, will fully substantiate the re- 
mark of Sir Egerton Brydges, that our best poets will be found to have 
equally excelled in prose. 



PREFACE. 5 

Fourth. Many more specimens of the English female mind will be found 
in this edition. The reader, however, must bear in mind that the most dis- 
tinguished female writers of England have been during the present century, 
into which it was not my purpose to enter. 

Fifth. This edition will be found to be enriched also with many more 
specimens of epistolary correspondence — not only the most interesting por- 
tions of an author's writings, as they show us more plainly the workings of 
his heart ; but the most permanently valuable, serving as models in that 
branch of literature with which every one must, more or less, be practically 
conversant. The letters of Wyatt, Temple, Gay, Gray, Pope, Montagu, Jones, 
and Cowper, will, I am sure, be considered as adding much to the value of 
the "Compendium." 

The changes that have been made in a few of the authors were not made 
without substantial reasons, which I think it proper concisely to state. — More. 
The previous account of the Utopia was too meagre to give a correct idea 
of it; and there were some points in the author's life that deserved to 
be brought out, to do justice to his character. — Marlow. The beautiful 
song, "The Passionate Shepherd to his Love," is now printed as found 
in Sir Egerton Brydges's elegant edition of Sir Walter Raleigh's Poems, 
which I took the pains to procure, though but one hundred copies of 
it were printed. It is now, doubtless, correct; and who will not be struck 
with its superior beauty ? — Southwell. One of his poems I had to omit, to 
make room for some of his equally charming prose. — English Minstrelsy. 
The changing of the ballad of the "Demon Lover," for the longer and far richer 
one of " Sir Patrick Spens," every one must deem an improvement. — Trans- 
lation of the Bible. The account of the most important versions of the 
Bible is now given, chronologically arranged, with some additional remarks 
on the value of our present version. — Shakspeare. "Othello's Defence," being 
more common, is left out for two choice extracts that are less known. — Sir 
Walter Raleigh. More change has been made in this author than in any 
other, as I was able to procure a copy of Sir E. Brydges's edition of h'.s 
works. "The Nymph's Reply" is now printed correctly, and every one must 
see its greater beauty. The " Soul's Errand" is given to him for reasons 
stated in the note under the piece. — Ben Jonson. An additional piece of 
poetry and of prose. — George Sandys. An extract from the Preface to his 
travels. — Crashaw. A portion of his spirited version of the twenty-third 
Psalm. — Jeremy Taylor. Instead of the " Ephesian Woman," will be found 
those most instructive remarks, " What is Life V — Milton. Considerable 
change will be found in this author. I was very desirous to give one of his 
poetical pieces entire, and selected his " Lycidas," which, of all his minor 
pieces, ranks next in merit to "Comus." This obliged me to throw out the 
extracts from " L'Allegro," and " II Penseroso," and two extracts from " Para- 
dise Lost." I regretted the loss of these the less, as they are more generally 
known. I also added two extracts from " Paradise Regained," and another 
of his exquisite " Sonnets." The extracts, also, from Dr. Symmons's and from 
Sir E. Brydges's Life of this "greatest of great men," will be deemed choice 
additions. — Andrew Marvell. His " Song of the Emigrants" is now printed 
from the best edition of his works : the alterations, though trifling in number, 
are certainly for the better. — Samuel Butler. This was one author from 
whom I thought I could .take two pages, without much loss. — Walton. The 
additions from this author will, I am sure, be considered an improvement. 
Dryden. Instead of the " Character of Shaftesbury," the reader will find 
the beautiful " Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killegrew," and an addi- 
tional extract from his prose works : his remarks on Spenser and Milton I 
have left out, as they are hardly worthy of his genius. Addison. To the ex- 

1* 



6 PREFACE. 

tracts from this author I have added two papers on Sir Roger de Coverley, and 
a portion of his poetical Epistle to Lord Halifax. I left out the two hymns, 
beginning, " When all thy mercies, O my God, ; ' and, " How are thy servants 
blest, Lord," because it is very douDtful whether he wrote them. Addison 
introduces them in the Spectator, as if they were the production of another; 
and the editor of Andrew Marvell's works, Edward Thompson, makes it 
appear very probable that they were written by his author, as they were 
found among his manuscripts in his hand-writing, with some variations. 
Gat. His letter on the "Village Lovers" is a gem. — Swift. His satire on 
" Transubstantiation" is omitted for two reasons: the subject is too sacred for 
such a weapon, and the doctrine too absurd for refutation. Instead of this, 
the reader will find a still more humorous piece, — that on " Partridge's 
Death.'* — Pope. The extracts from the "Essay on Criticism," the "Essay on 
Man," and his "Letter to Steele," additional; and the extracts from the "Rape 
of the Lock" better arranged. — Thomson. . " The Loves of the Birds," "A 
Summer Scene," "A Thunder-Shower," "The Springs of Rivers," and "A 
Man perishing in the Snows of Winter," additional. — Bolingbroke. " The 
Use of History," additional. — Gray. His " Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton 
College," the exquisitely beautiful "Song," and the four " Letters," additional. — 
Goldsmith. The "Scenery of the Alps," and the "History of a Poet's Gar 
den," take the place of "Alcander and Septimius," a rather unnatural story.— 
Blackstone. His remarks on "The Origin and Right of Property," omitted, 
as altogether too dry. — Johnson'. " Gayety and Good-Humor," "The Conver- 
sation of Authors," " Books and Tradition," " Prevention of Evil Habits," and 
" Parallel between Pope and Dryden," additional. — Lowth. His " Remarks 
on the Sublimity of the Prophet Isaiah," who will not value 1 — Jones. His 
beautiful letter on " Milton's Residence," additional. — Burke. "John How- 
ard," " Sir Joshua Reynolds," " Rights of Man," " Noisy Politicians," all addi- 
tional. — Junius. This author had rather more than his share before: I there- 
fore omitted two letters of less importance. — Cowper. " The Wounded Spi- 
rit Healed," " The Guilt of making Man Property," " The Diverting History 
of John Gilpin," and five letters, " Cowper's Amusements," " Writing upon 
Any Thing," "An Epistle in Rhyme," "Expects Lady Hesketh, &c," " Trans- 
lation of Homer, &c., ,: all additional. 

Such are the most important additions and alterations which have been 
made in the second edition. But there is hardly an author that remains pre- 
cisely as before. In almost every one, some additional notes will be found, 
and the number of verbal alterations is very great. This is owing to the fact 
that the second proof of this edition I have read very carefully with a most 
experienced and critical proof-reader, by the best original edition of each author. 
One would be surprised to see how many errors have crept into the various 
reprints. To give but two specimens: the fourth line of the " Emigrants," 
of Marvell, reads in the common editions, "The listening winds received 
their song." It should be u this song;" and then the song follows, and not in 
verses as usually printed. The last line but one of Cowper's eulogy on John 
Bunyan usually reads, "And not with curses on his heart:" it should be — 

And not with curses on his art, who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 

Numerous cases of a similar character might be cited; but I have already 
said quite enough of my own efforts to improve this edition : the Publishers, 
it will be seen, have done their part in a style of unusual beauty; so that, 
I believe, scarcely any book has been offered to the public at so moderate a 
price, if the amount of reading matter and the style of mechanical execu- 
tion be taken into view 

Philadelphia, September 2, 1848. CD C. 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. 



Addison - , Joseph 


374 


Akenside, Mark . 


. 578 


Arbuthnot, John 


419 


AsCHAM, ROGER 


74 


Bacon, Francis 


159 


Barbour, John 


. 25 


Barclay, Robert 


324 


Barrow, Isaac 


. 278 


Baxter, Richard 


332 


Beaumont, Francis 


. 143 


Bentley, Richard 


429 


Berkeley, George 


510 


Bible, Translations of 


118 


Blackstone, William . 


645 


Blair, Robert . 


465 


BOLING BROKE, LORD 


. 494 


Booth, Barton . 


418 


Boyle, Robert 


. 328 


Browne, Thomas 


298 


Bunyan, John 


. 317 


Burke, Edmund . 


712 


Burns, Robert 


. 700 


Butler, Joseph . 


504 


Butler, Samuel 


. 292 


Byrom, John 


538 


Carew, Thomas 


177 


Carey, Elizabeth 


154 


Caxton, William . 


42 


Chatham, Earl of 


639 


Chatterton, Thomas 


570 


Chaucer, Geoffrey 


26 


Cheke, John . 


. 68 


Chillingworth, William 


182 


Clarendon, Earl of 


. 269 


Collins, William 


516 



Cowley, Abraham 
Cowper, William 
Crashaw, Richard 
Daniel, Samuel . 
Davenant, William 
De Foe, Daniel . 
Doddridge, Philip . 
Dodsley, Robert 
Donne, John . 
Drayton, Michael 
Drummond, William 
Dryden, John 
Dunbar, William . 
Elizabeth, Queen 
Falconer, William 
Felltham, Owen 
Finch, Anne . 
Fletcher, Giles 
Fletcher, John 
Fletcher, Phineas 
Fuller, Thomas 
Gay, John . 
Gibbon, Edward . 
Goldsmith, Oliver 
Gower, John . 
Gray, Thomas 
Greville, Mrs. 
Grove, Henry 
Habington, William 
Hale, Matthew . 
Hall, Joseph . 
Hawkesworth, John 
Herbert, George . 
Herrick, Robert 
Heywood, John 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. 



Hooker, Richard 


104 


Howard, Henry 


. 60 


Hume, David 


635 


Hyde, Edward 


. 269 


James I. of Scotland . 


38 


Johnson, Samuel 


. 647 


Jones, William . 


695 


Jonson, Ben . 


. 172 


Junius, Letters of . 


723 


Killegrew, Anne . 


. 312 


King, William . 


541 


Latimer, Hugh 


. 65 


Leighton, Robert 


309 


Locke, John . 


. 356 


Lovelace, Richard 


205 


Lowth, Robert 


. 673 


Mandeville, John 


17 


Margaret, Duchess of Nj 


w- 


castle 


. 236 


Markham, Gervase 


179 


Marlowe, Christopher . 


. 87 


Marvell, Andrew 


282 


Middleton, Conyers 


. 489 


Milton, John 


239 


Minstrelsy, English 


. 109 


Montagu, Lady Mary 


532 


More, Thomas 


. 47 


Newcastle, Duchess of 


236 


Overbury, Thomas 


. 125 


Parnele, Thomas 


366 


Penn, William 


. 369 


Philips, Catherine . 


216 


Pitt, William 


. 639 


Pope, Alexander 


450 


Prior, Matthew . 


. 398 


Quarles, Francis 


186 


Raleigh, Walter . 


. 146 


Richardson, Samuel . 


525 



Robertson, William 
Rowe, Elizabeth . 
Russell, Rachel 
Sackville, Thomas 
St. John, Henry 
Sandys, George 
Sewell, George 
Shakspeare, William 
Shenstone, William 
Sherlock, Thomas . 
Sidney, Philip . 
Smollet, Tobias 
somerville, wllliam 
Spenser, Edmund . 
South, Robert . 
Southwell, Robert 
Steele, Richard 
Still, John 
Surrey, Earl of 
Swift, Jonathan . 
Talbot, Catherine 
Taylor, Jeremy 
Temple, William 
Thomson, James 
Tickell, Thomas 
Tillotson, John 
Tollet, Elizabeth 
Tyndale, William 
Vaughan, Henry 
Vanhomrigh, Esther 
Waller, Edmund 
Walton, Isaac 
Warton, Thomas 
Watts, Isaac 
Wiclif, John 
Wyatt, Thomas 
Yalden, Thomas 
Young, Edward 



CONTENTS. 



SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE • . 

Prom the Prologue 

The Chinese 

Spherical Form of the Earth- 



JOHN WICLIF 

Gratitude due the Reformer (note) • • • 
Wordsworth's Lines on Wiclif (note)- • 

Wiclif's Apology 

All-sufficiency of the Scriptures 

Papal Opposition to Wiclif, (note) 
Specimen of his Translation of the 
Bible - 



JOHN BARBOUR 

Apostrophe to Freedom 

Paraphrase of the same, (note)- 



GEOFPREY CHAUCER 

Boccacio's Decameron, (note) 

Prologue to Canterbury Tales 

Influence on the Reformation, (note) • 

The Knight and Squire 

The Clerk 

The Wife • • 

The Parson 

Troilus and Creseida 

Romaunt of the Rose 

The House of Fame 

Eagle's Flight with the Poet 

Pope's Imitation, (note) 

The Flower and the Leaf 

Prose — Upon Riches 



JOHN GOWER 

Confessio Amantis 
Story of Florent 



JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND 

The King's Quair 

On his Beloved 



WILLIAM CAXTON 

Discovery of the Art of Printing, (note) 
Origin of the Name of Albion 



WILLIAM DUNBAR 

The Thistle and the Rose 

Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins- 
No Treasure without Gladness • • 



SLR THOMAS MORE 

Interview with Erasmus 

The Utopia, account of m 

His other Works 

Queen Margaret's Speech on giving 
up her Son to the " Protector' • • 

His Marriages 

His Letter to his Wife 



WILLIAM TYNDALE 63 

Various Translations of the Bible- • • • 53 

His Death 54 

Tyndale's Version, Luke x. 25 54 

SIR THOMAS WYATT. 55 

The Lover complaineth of the unkind- 

ness of his Love 58 

He prayeth not to be Disdained, &c- • 57 

Description of One he would love • • • • 57 

Of the Mean and Sure Estate 58 

Of his Return from Spain 58 

Prose ~. 58 

Letter to his Son 58 

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 60 

Prisoner in Windsor 61 

Dr. Nott's Comparison between Surrey 

and Wyatt, (note) 61 

The Frailty of Beauty 63 

In Praise of his Lady-love 63 

Description of Spring 64 

A happy Life, and the Means to attain 64 

it. 64 



HUGH LATIMER 

His ilartyrdom 

A Yeoman of Henry VLT.'s Time 
Examined before the Bishops • • • 
Cause and Effect • • • •— 



SIR JOHN CHEKE 

Lines from Milton, (note) 

The New and the Old Religion con- 
trasted 



JOHN HEYWOOD 

The Drama 

Miracle Plays 

Moral Plays 

Writers of Elizabeth's Reign, (note)- 

Interludes 

From the Four P's 

PalmeT and Pilgrim, (note) 



JOHN STILL 

Gammer Gurton's Needle- 
Extract from 



ROGER ASCHAM 

From the Toxophilus 

In Praise of the Goose 

Apology for Writing in English 

Intermixture of Study and Exercise- • 
Consequences of Neglected Education 
Dangers of Foreign Travel 



51 I SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

52 | The Arcadia ■ 



10 



CONTENTS. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

Description of Arcadia 81 

Pamela and Philoclea 81 

Description of a Stag-hunt 82 

Ilis Defence of Poesy 83 

Character of the Poet 83 

Philosopher, Historian, and Poet, com- 
pared 84 

In Praise of Poesy 85 

Poetry — Sonnet to Sleep 87 

C IIRISTOPHER MARLOWE 87 

4 Passionate Shepherd to his Love- • • 87 

ROBERT SOUTHWELL 88 

The Power of Truth, Bryant, (note). • 89 

Times go by Turns 89 

Scorn not the Least 90 

Content and Rich 90 

Prose — Mary Magdalen's Tears 91 

Life hath no Unmeddled Joy 92 

EDMUND SPENSER 93 

Remarks on the "Faerie Queene"- • ■ • 91 

The Knight and the Lady 95 

Una followed by the Lion 97 

Description of Prince Arthur 99 

Belphoebe 100 

The Care of Angels over Men 102 

The Seasons 102 

Criticisms of Mackintosh, Hazlitt, and 

Campbell, (notes) 103 

Prose Works 103 

The Irish Bards 101 

RICHARD HOOKER 104 

His Ecclesiastical Polity 105 

His Letter to the Archbishop 105 

The Necessity and Majesty of Law- • • 106 

Sudden Death not Desirable 107 

The Excellency of the Psalms 108 

ENGLISH MINSTRELSY 109 

Account of the Minstrels 109 

Sir Patrick Spens 109 

Chevy Chase 112 

The Two Corbies 116 

QUEEN ELIZABETH 117 

Verses on her own Feelings 117 

Historical Account of them, (note) 117 

TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE 118 

Covcrdale's Bible 118 

Matthewe's Bible 118 

Cranmer's, or the Great Bible 119 

Taverner's Bible 119 

Geneva Bible 119 

Bishops' Bible 119 

Douay Bible 119 

King James's Bible ■ 119 

Account of the same 119 

Influence of the Bible on the English 

Mind 120 

Mrs. Ellis's Remarks, (note) 121 

THOMAS S ACK YILLE 121 

From the Ferrex and Porrex 122 

The Mirror of Magistrates 122 

Allegorical Characters in He! 1 122 

SIR THOMAS OYERBURY 125 

The Wife 126 



SLR THOMAS OYERBURY. 

Prose Writings -• 126 

A Fair and Happy Milkmaid 126 

WILLIAM SH AKSPE ARE 127 

Chronological List of his Plays 128 

Ben Jonson's Encomium 129 

Dryden's Encomium 129 

From the "Merchant of Venice," — the 

Three Caskets 130 

The Seven Ages 134 

Clarence's Dream 135 

Fall of Cardinal Wolsey 137 

Queen Ma?b and the Fairies ■ • - ■ 139 

Life and Death weighed 140 

Mercy 141 . 

Fame to be kept bright by Activity- ■ • 141 
The Commonwealth of Bees 142 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 143 

Address to Melancholy 143 

The Life of Man 144 

Morning 144 

Exhortation to Early Rising 144 

The Shepherd's Evening 145 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH 146 

The Fall of mighty Empires— The Folly 

of Ambition— The Power of Death 147 

His various Prose Works 148 

Poetry 149 

A Description of the Country's Recrea- 
tions 149 

Sir Egerton Brydges's Opinion of him 

as a Poet, (note) 149 

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd • 3 50 

A Vision upon the Faerie Queene 151 

The Soul's Errand 151 

His last Letter to his Wife 153 

LADY ELIZABETH CAREY 154 

On Forgiveness of Injuries 154 

SAMUEL DANIEL 155 

His History of the Civil Wars 155 

Equanimity 156 

Richard the Second 157 

GILES FLETCHER 158 

Redemption 158 

FRANCIS BACON 159 

Account of his various Works 160 

Diverse Objects of Men to gain Know- 
ledge 161 

Preservation of Knowledge 161 

Pleasure of Knowledge 162 

Uses of Knowledge 162 

Studies 163 

End of Knowledge 164 

Immortality of Literary Fame 164 

JOHN DONNE 165 

The FareweU 166 

Prose 167 

The Psalms 167 

Christians to Preach by Example 167 

God may be Worshipped anywhere • • 167 

Greatest Cross to have no Cross 168 

Anger 168 

MICHAEL DRAYTON 169 

Chorus of the Birds 169 



CONTENTS. 



11 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 

The Parting 170 

Palace of the Fairies : Queen Mab's 
Chariot, and her Journey 170 

BEN JONSON 172 

Cupid 172 

Hymn to Cynthia 173 

Prose Writings 173 

Directions for Writing well 173 

Character of Lord Bacon 174 

GEORGE HERBERT 175 

Concerning Detraction 175 

His Character as a Poet 176 

Sunday 176 

The Bosom Sin 177 

THOMAS CAREW 177 

Epitaph on the Lady Mary Tilliers • • 178 

Persuasions to Lore 17S 

Pleasure '• 17 S 

GERYASE M ARKHAM 179 

The Good Housewife 179 

GEORGE SANDYS ISO 

The Lamentation of David ISO 

Eall of Ancient Empires 1S1 

WILLIAM CHILLING WORTH 1S2 

The Necessity of an Unadulterated 

Scripture 183 

Scripture alone the Rule of Faith 184 

The Sin of Duelling- • • = 184 

Extract from Dr. Beecher's Sermon on 
the same, (note) 1S5 

FRANCIS QUARLES 1S6 

Whither shall I fly? 1S3 

The World 187 

Mercy tempering Justice •" 1SS 

His Prose Works 1SS 

Extracts from the Enchiridion 1SS 

WILLIAM DRUMMOND 190 

The Praise of a Solitary Life 190 

On Sleep "• 191 

On Spring 191 

To his Lute 191 

To the Nightingale 192 

RICHARD CRASHAW 192 

Lines on a Prayer-Book 193 

Yersion of Twenty-third Psalm 194 

PHINEAS FLETCHER 195 

Account of the Purple Island 195 

The Shepherd's Life 195 

Envy 196 

Decay of Human Greatness 196 

WILLIAM HABINGTON 197 

To Castara 193 

The Yanity of Avarice 19S 

JOSEPH HALL 199 

His Satires 199 

The Client and Lawver 199 

The Domestic Tutor* 200 

The Rustic wishing to turn Soldier- • • 200 

The Fashionable Beau 201 

His Prose Writings 201 



JOSEPH HALL. 

His Meditations 201 

A Red-breast coming into his CI amber 2u2 

Hearing Music by Night 202 

The Sight of a great Library 202 

The Happy Man 203 

Burns"s Opinion of Happiness, (note) 203 
Pleasure of Study and Contemplation 204 

RICHARD LOYELACE 205 

To Althea 206 

The Grasshopper 206 

THOMAS FULLER 207 

His various Works 207 

Miscellaneous Aphorisms 208 

The Good Schoolmaster 203 

The Good Wife 210 

The Good Sea-captain 2L0 

On Travelling ■ 211 

Of Memory 212 

ROBERT HERRICK 213 

To Daffodils 213 

To Primroses 213 

To Blossoms 214 

How Keart's-ease first came 214 

The Captive Bee 215 

The Night-Piece, to Julia 215 

The Primrose 216 

Upon a Child that Died 216 

Epitaph upon a Child 216 

Upon a Maid 216 

CATHERINE PHILIPS 216 

Against Pleasure 217 

To my Antenor ••••217 

JEREMY TAYLOR 218 

On Prayer '• 219 

On Toleration 220 

On Content 221 

Lines from Burns and Thomson, 

(note) 221 

On Covetousness 222 

Adversity -22 

Lines from Shakspeare, (note) 222 

The Miseries of a Man's Life 223 

Dawn and Progress '->f Reason 223 

What is Life? - 223 

ABRAHAM COWLEY 225 

Gold ••••-. 226 

The Grasshopper 226 

Hymn to Licjht 227 

His Prose Works 227 

On Mvself 227 

The Pleasures of a Country Life 229 

Character of Cromwell 230 

SLR WILLIAM DAYENANT 231 

Poet Laureate, what ? (note) - 231 

Gondibert, its story 232 

Character and Love of Birtha 233 

Song, " The Lark now leaves" 235 

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEW- 
CASTLE 236 

Mirth and Melancholy 236 

Mirth 236 

Melancholy 237 

On the Theme of Love 238 

The Funeral of Calamity 238 



12 



CONTENTS. 



JOHN MILTON 239 

His chief Poetical Works 240 

Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity 241 

Lycidas 243 

Scene from Comus 249 

Invocation to Light 252 

Eve's Account of her Creation 253 

Evening in Paradise 254 

Rome 257 

Athens • 257 

Samson's Lamentation for his Blind- 
ness 258 

Sonnet on his own Blindness 259 

ToCyriack Skinner 260 

To a Virtuotis Young Lady 260 

His Prose Works 260 

He consecrates his Powers to the Cause 
of Truth — Studies and Preparation 

for his great work 261 

Argument for the Liberty of the Press 265 

England and London 266 

Reform 266 

The Power of Truth 267 

The Poet's Morning 268 

Synimons's Estimate of his Character 268 
Sir Egerton Brydges's Estimate 268 

EDWARD HYDE, £ ARL OF CLAREN- 
DON „• 269 

John Hampden 270 

Character of Charles I., (note) 270 

Lord Falkland 272 

BIR MATTHEW HALE 274 

Lord Erskine's Encomium, (note)- •• • 274 

Cowper's Encomium, (note) 274 

To his Children — upon regulating their 
conversation 275 

ISAAC BARROW 278 

Duty of Bounty to the Poor---- 278 

The Structure of the Body a Proof of 

Divine Wisdom 280 

Guilt of making man Property, (note) 280 

What is Wit? 281 

Knowledge a Source of Delight * 282 

ANDREW MARVELL - 282 

Bacon on Knowledge, (note) 282 

Doleful Evils of the Press • 283 

Parody on Charles II.'s Speeches 284 

Friendship of Marvell and Milton- • • • 285 

Milton 286 

His Poetry— The Emigrants 286 

The Nymph complaining for the Death 
of her Fawn 287 

OWEN FELLTHAM — -• 288 

We are Happy or Miserable by Com- 
parison 289 

On Prayer 289 

Of Faith and Works - - 290 

Sedulity and Diligence -- 290 

Content makes Rich 291 

Morning and Evening Prayer ....... 292 

BAMUEL BUTLER ~. 292 

Macaulay's Character of the Puritans, 

(note) 293 

Description of Hudibras -- • • 293 

Tludibras's Logic 294 

His Mathematics 295 

Hia Metaphysics 295 



SAMUEL BUTLEK, 
His Apparel 296 

Butler's Prose— A Small Poet 296 

THOMAS BROWNE 298 

His various Works 298 

Thoughts on Death and Immortality- 299 

Pride 300 

Soliloquies of the Old Philosopher and 

the Young Lady, (note) 301 

His Latinized English 302 

IZAAK WALTON 302 

Complete Angler 303 

Falconry, account of, (note) 303 

Dialogue — Falconer 303 

Venator 305 

Piscator 305 

Piscator and Milk-woman 307 

Exhortation to Contentment 308 

ROBERT LEIGHTON 309 

Despise not the Least 310 

The Beasts within us 310 

All Christians Preachers oil 

Temperance *vv 3 11 

The Heart the Great Regulator 311 

A Contracted Sphere no Security 
against Worldliness 312 

ANNE KILLIGREW 312 

The Discontent •••' 312 

EDMUND WALLER.--..-— • 314 

Panegyric to my Lord Protector 315 

Beauty and the Rose compared ■••— • 316 

JOHN BUNYAN . 317 

Cowper's Lines to Bunyan 317 

His various Works • 319 

Pilgrim's Progress 319 

Macaulay's Eulogy, (note) 320 

Christian in Doubting Castle 320 

ROBERT BARCLAY 324 

Practical Religion, (note) • — ~ 325 

Dedication to Charles II. 325 

Against Titles of Honor 326 

ROBERT BOYLE 328 

His Various Writings 329 

The Study of Natural Philosophy fa- 
vorable to Religion 330 

Discrimination necessary in Reading 
the Scriptures- — • 331 

RICHARD BAXTER ~ 332 

Experience of Human Character 333 

Desire of Approbation 334 

Character of Sir Matthew Hale 334 

Theological Controversies • • • — 336 

JOHN TILLOTSON 336 

False and True Pleasure 337 

Evidence of a Creator in the Structure 

of the World . 337 

Education 338 

Coleridge's Views of Education, (note) 338 

Formation of a Youthful Mind 338 

Worldly Influences 339 

HENRY VAUGHAN 339 

Early Rising and Prayer - 340 



CONTENTS. 



13 



HENRY VAUGnAN. 

Pleasures of the Country 340 

Responsibility of Authors and Pub- 
lishers 341 

?IR WILLIAM TEMPLE 342 

His various Works 342 

His Essay on Ancient and Modern 

Learning 342 

Pleastires of a Rural Life 343 

Homer and Virgil compared 343 

Against excessive Grief • • • •, 344 

JOHN DRYDEN 346 

- His various Works 346 

Estimate of his Character 347 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Kil- 

legrew 348 

On Milton 349 

Yeni Creator Spiritus 349 

Enjoyment of the Present Hour re- 
commended 350 

His Prose Works ; 351 

Shakspeare 352 

Ben Jonson • 352 

ChaucerJ^BCowley 353 

The Heathen— Reason and Revelation 354 

JOHN LOCKE 356 

His various Works 357 

Practice and Habit 357 

Injudicious Haste in Study 359 

Importance of Moral Education 360 

The Riaht Improvement of History- • 360 

The Schoolmaster, (note) 360 

Orthodoxy and Heresy 361 

Duty of Preserving Health 362 

ROBERT SOUTH 362 

The Will for the Deed 363 

Covetousness 364 

The Glory of the Clergy 365 

The Pleasures of Amusement and In- 
dustry compared 365 

The Eye of Conscience 365 

THOMAS PARNELL 366 

From the Hermit 367 

Story on which the "Hermit" is 

founded, (note) 367 

Hymn to Contentment 368 

WILLIAM PENN 369 

Preface to his Maxims 370 

Advice to his Children 372 

JOSEPH ADDISON 374 

Commencement of the Tatler, (note)- • 375 

Spectator 375 

■ Guardian 376 

On Shakspeare 377 

Bi< kerstaff s learning Fencing 378 

On the Use of the Fan 378 

The Lover's Leap 3S1 

Dissection of a Beau's Head 383 

Coquette's Heart 385 

Yisit to Sir Roger in the Country • • • • 387 

Sir Roger at Church 390 

Moral Tendency of Addison's Writings 391 

Omnipresence of the Deity 391 

Reflections in Westminster Abbey 393 

His Poetry— Letter from Italy 394 

Paraphrase of Psalm xxiii. 395 



ANNE FINCH 396 

The Atheist and the Acorn 396 

Life's Progress 397 

MATTHEW PRIOR 398 

An Epitaph 398 

ESTHER YANHOMRIGH 399 

Ode to Spring 399 

LADY RACHEL RUSSELL • 400 

Letter to Dr. Fitzwilliani 400 

GEORGE SEWELL 401 

Yerses in Anticipation of his own Death 402 

SIR RICHARD STEELE 402 

His Claims to be considered the Father 

of Periodical Writings 403 

The Dream 404 

The Death of his Father 405 

The Strength of True Love 405 

The Blind restored to Sight 407 

DANIEL DE FOE 410 

His various WGrk;#jt «■ r . 410 

Robinson Crusoe discovers the Foot- 
print 411 

JOHN GAY 414 

The Bull and the Mastiff 414 

The Hare and many Friends 415 

His Prose Works 416 

The Yillage Lovers 416 

BARTON BOOTH 418 

Sweet are the charms of her I love- • • 418 

JOHN ARBUTHNOT 419 

Know Yourself 420 

ELIZABETH ROWE 422 

Despair 423 

A Hymn 423 

HENRY GROYE 424 

The true Art of enjoving Life 425 

On Novelty ■ 426 

THOMAS TICKELL 427 

On the Death of Addison 427 

RICHARD BENTLEY 429 

Authority of Reason iu Religion 410 

WILLIAM SOMERYILLE 431 

Beginning of a Fox-IIunt 431 

Lines addressed to Addison 432 

JONATHAN SWIFT 433 

Wood's Half-Pence 434 

Country Hospitality 435 

The Spider and the Bee 437 

Partridge's Death foretold ■ • • 439 

Partridge's Death realized 440 

His Poetry 442 

Baucis anil Philemon 442 

THOMAS YALDEN 446 

John Partridge's Defence - 446 

ALEXANDER POPE 45u 

Messiah 452 

2 



14 



CONTENTS. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 

Pride 454 

Sound an Echo to the Sense • • 455 

Evanescence of Poetic Fame 455 

The Scale of Being 456 

Omnipresence of the Deity 457 

Address to Bolingbroke 457 

The Toilet 458 

Description of Belinda 458 

The Baron offers Sacrifice for Success- 459 

The Sylphs — their Functions 459 

The Dying Christian 461 

His Prose 462 

Letter to Steele on Early Death 4G2 

Shakspeare 463 

Homer and Virgil compared 464 

ROBERT BLAIR 465 

The Grave 465 

Death-divided Friendships 466 

Death, the good Man's Path to Heaven 466 

JAMES THOMSON 468 

Loves of the Birds 469 

A Summer Scene 470 

A Thunder-Shower 470 

Summer Evening 470 

The Springs of Rivers 471 

A Man perishing in the Snows of 

Winter 472 

The various Sufferings in Winter • • • • 473 

Moral of the Seasons 473 

Hymn on the Seasons 474 

From the Castle of Indolence 477 

ISAAC WATTS 479 

A Summer Evening 480 

The Rose 481 

Few Happy Matches 481 

Looking Upward 482 

Seeking a divine Calm in a restless 

World 483 

Launching into Eternity 483 

His Prose 484 

General Directions relating to our 

Ideas 484 

Rules for Improvement by Conversa- 
tion 486 

CONYERS MIDDLETON 489 

Cicero offers Himself to the Bar 490 

Close of Cicero's Consulship 491 

Character of Pompey 492 

HENRY ST. JOHN (BOLINGBROKE). ■ 494 

Absurdities of Useless Learning 495 

The Use of History 497 

The World our Country 497 

Fortune not to be trusted- ■ • • • 498 

PHTLIP DODDRIDGE ..... 499 

Letter to a Female Friend 500 

Letter to his Wife 501 

The true Use of Learning 502 

Worldly Cares 502 

His Poetry 503 

The Sabbath 503 

Self-examination 503 

Entering into Covenant 504 

JOSEPH BUTLER 504 

Christianity a Scheme imperfectly 
comprehended 507 



GEORGE BERKELEY 5\fl 

Poetry 511 

South Soa Scheme, (note) 511 

National Luxury the Road to National 

Ruin 513 



ELIZABETH TOLLET 
On a Death's-Head - • • 
Winter Song 



515 
515 
516 



WILLIAM COLLINS 516 

Ode to Fear 517 

Ode to Evening 519 

The Passions 520 

Ode to the Brave 523 

Ode to Mercy 523 

On the Death of Thomson 524 

SAMUEL RICHARDSON 525 

Moral Sentiments — Benevolence, Ca- 
lumny, Censure, Children, Educa- 
tion 527 

Friendship. General Observations • • • • 528 

The Good Man 528 

The Good Woman, Youth 529 

THOMAS SHERLOCK 529 

Different Ends of Religion and Infi- 
delity 530 

The Information the Gospel gives most 

desirable 530 

Christ and Mohammed compared 532 

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU • 532 

Eastern Manners and Language 533 

France in 1718 535 

Female Education 535 

JOHN BYROM-- 538 

A Pastoral 538 

The Three Black Crows 540 

WILLIAM KING 541 

Virgil 541 

A Repartee • • • • • 543 

Singular Conduct 544 

WILLIAM SHENSTONE 546 

The School-Mistress 546 

ROBERT DODSLEY 549 

Emulation 550 

Temperance 550 

Anger 551 

Woman 552 

Rich and Poor 553 

Benevolence 554 

EDWARD YOUNG • 555 

Introduction to the .Night Thoughts, 

the Value of Time, &c 556 

Man's Resolutions to Reform 559 

Life and Death 559 

Dying Rich 559 

Society necessary for Happiness 560 

Insufficiency of Genius and Station 

without Virtuf 560 

The Love of Praise 562 

The Languid Lady 562 

WILLIAM FALCONER 562 

The Vessel going to Pieces, Death of 

Albert the Commander 563 



CONTENTS. 



15 



CATHERINE TALBOT 

A Sense of God's Presence • 

Self-Examination • 

All can do Good 

Importance of Time 

Poetry 

Importance of Early Rising 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 

Death of Sir Charles Bawdin- 
Resignation 



MARK AKENSIDE 

Introduction. The Subject proposed 

Man's immortal Aspirations 

Cause of our Pleasure in Beauty 

Superiority of Moral Beauty 

Taste 

Conclusion 



THOMAS GRAY 

The Progress of Poetry 

The Baru 

Elegy written in a Country Church- 
yard 

On a distant Prospect of Eton College 

Song 

Prose Works 

How he Spends his Time in the Coun- 
try 

Netlev Abbey and Southampton. — 
B'eautiful Sunset • 

To Mr. Nichols, on the Death of his 
Mother 

To Mr. Mason, on the Death of his 
Wife 



obb 
567 
567 
568 
569 



570 
571 



TOBIAS SMOLLET 

The Tears of Scotland • 
Ode to Leven Water • • • 



607 
608 



JOHN HAWKESWORTH 609 

Value of Familiar Letters 610 

Danger of Relapse after Purposes of 

Amendment 610 

How far the Precept to LoTe our Ene- 
mies is Practicable 612 

Carazan, the Merchant of Bagdad • • • • 61 5 
k Lesson from the Flight of Time- • • • 617 
Hymn 618 



WILLIAM PITT. EARL OF CHATHAM. 
Our own Reason, and Others' Experi- 
ence to be used 643 

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE • 645 

The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse • • 645 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Lines of Garrick, (note) 

Letter to Lord Chesterfield 

The Voyage of Life 

Knowledge to be accommodated to the 

Purposes of Life .... 

Right Improvement of Time 

Duty of Forgiveness 

Solitude not Desirable ■•••.- 

Gayety and Good Humor 

The Conversation of Authors 

Books and Tradition • • • •. 

Prevention of Evil Habits 

From the Preface to his Dictionary- • • 

Reflections on Landing at Ioua 

Picture of the Miseries of War 

Parallel between Dryden and Pope- • • 

Shakspeare 

The Fate of Poverty 

Cardinal Wolsey 

Charles XII 

Objects of Petition 

Folly of Procrastination 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Italy 



France- 



Britain 

The Village Preacher 

Elegy on Mrs. Blaize 

Prose Works 

Life Endeared by Age 

A City Night-Piece 

Scenery of the Alps 

History of a Poet's Garden 
All cannot be Poets 



•• 618 

■• 622 

• 623 

• 624 
•■• 625 

• 626 

• 627 

• 627 

• 629 

• 631 
631 

• 634 



DAVID HUME 

On Delicacy of Taste 

On Simplicity and Refinement- 
The Middle Station of Life 



WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM 639 
Study of the Classics recommended • • 640 
General Advice to the Youthful Stu- 
dent C41 



657 
659 
600 
661 
661 
662 
662 
662 
663 
664 
665 
666 
669 
669 
670 
671 
671 

672 
672 



MRS. GREVILLE 

Prayer for Indifference 

ROBERT LOWTH 673 

Philosophy and Poetry compared as 
Sources of Pleasure and Instruc- 
tion 674 

Utility of Poetry, by Leigh Hunt, (note) 674 
Sublimity of the Prophet Isaiah 678 



THOMAS WARTON • • 
The Hamlet, an Ode- 
The Crusade, an Ode 



6S0 
681 
682 



WILLIAM ROBERTSON 684 

Resignation of Charles V. 684 

Columbus discovering America 6S7 



EDWARD GIBBON 

His Birth 

Education 

First Love 

Interview with his Father • • 

Publication of his History- • • 

Completion of his History • - - 

Invention and Use of Gunpowder 



688 
6S9 
689 
690 
691 
692 
693 
694 



SIR WILLIAM JONES • - 69h 

The Bible 697 

An Ode 697 

Description of Milton's Residence 698 



ROBERT BURNS 

Professor Wilson's Remarks • 

To a Mountain Daisy 

To Mary in Heaven • 

Lessons for Life 

The Cotter's Saturday Night- 
Man was made to Mourn 



700 
701 
703 
704 
705 
706 
710 



EDMUND BURKE 712 

Efforts of English Abolitionists, (note) 713 



16 



CONTENTS. 



EDMUND BURKE. 
Comparison between Burke and John- 
son, (note) 714 

Terror a Source of the Sublime 715 

Sympathy a Source of the Sublime- • • 715 

Uncertainty a Source of the Sublime- 716 

Difficulty advantageous 717 

Revolutions of National Grandeur 717 

Character of Junius 718 

John Howard 718 

Sir Joshua Reynolds 719 

Speech to the Electors of Bristol 720 

The Queen of France 721 

Rights of Man • 721 

Noisy Politicians 721 

Chivalry, what ? (note) 721 

Lamentation over his Son 722 

LETTERS OF JUNIUS 723 

Dedication to the English Nation 726 

To the Duke of Bedford 727 

To the King 729 

Encomium on Lord Chatham 732 

To Lord Camden 733 

WILLIAM COWPER 734 

Providence of God in all Things 737 

The Wounded Spirit healed 738 

True Philosophy 738 

The Geologist and Cosmologist 739 



WILLIAM COWPER. 

Slavery •••• 739 

Happy Effects of Emancipation, (note) 740 

Knowledge and Wisdom 740 

Mercy to Animals 740 

War--- 741 

Liberty 741 

The Post-Boy 742 

Pleasures of a Winter Evening 742 

The Guilt of making Man Property • • 745 

To Mary 745 

Preaching vs. Practice 746 

John Gilpin 747 

John Bunyan • 752 

Sonnet to William Wilberforce 753 

Wilberforce's Efforts to abolish Slave- 
ry, (note) 753 

Lines on his Mother's Picture 753 

His Prose — His Letters 755 

Cowper's Amusements 756 

Writing upon Any Thing 757 

An Epistle in Rhyme 758 

Expects Lady Hesketh — Preparations 

for her — His Workshop- • • 760 

Translation of Homer — The Nonsense 

Club 761 

On a Particular Providence 76i 



HT*Note. — In using the "Compendium" with less advanced classes I have 
deemed it better to commence with the authors of Queen Anne's reign — say 
with Addison — and then, after having gone through the book, to go back to 
our earliest literature, beginning with Sir John Mandeville. Others, on the 
contrary, may think it more beneficial for all students, at the outset, to be made 
familiar with our good old English. Which is the better way, every instructor 
will of course decide for himself, according to circumstances. C. D. C 



COMPENDIUM 



ENGLISH LITERATURE, 



SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE. 1300—1371. 

The first prose writer which occurs in the annals of English Literature, is 
tne ancient and renowned traveller, Sir John Mandeville. He was born at 
St. Albans, 1 about the year 1300. Stimulated by an unconquerable curiosity 
to see foreign countries, he departed from England in 1322, and continued 
abroad for thirty-four years; during which time his person and appearance 
had so changed, that, on his return, his friends, who had supposed him dead, 
did not know him. But so fixed was his habit of roving, that he set out a 
second time from his own country, and died at Leige, (Belgium,) November 
17, 1371. John Bale, in his catalogue of British writers, gives him the follow- 
ing fine character, as translated by Hakluyt : — 

"John Mandevil Knight, borne in the Towne of S. Albans, was so well 
given to the study of Learning from his childhood, that he seemed to plant 
a good part of his felicitie in the same: for he supposed, that the honour of 
his Birth would nothing availe him, except he could render the same more 
honourable, by his knowledge in good letters. Having therefore well grounded 
himselfe in Religion, by reading the Scriptures, he applied his Studies to the 
Art of Physicke, a Profession worthy a noble Wit: but amongst other things, 
he was ravished with a mightie desire to see the greater parts of the World, as 
Asia and Africa. Having therefore provided all things necessary for his jour- 
ney, he departed from his Countrey in the yeere of Christ 1322; and, as an- 
other Ulysses, returned home, after the space of thirty-four yeeres, and was then 
knowen to a very fewe. In the time of his Travaile he was in Scythia, the 
greater and lesse Armenia, Egypt, bothLibyas. Arabia, Syria, Media, Mesopota- 
mia, Persia, Chalda'a, Greece, Illyrium, Tartarie, and divers other Kingdomes 
of the World: and having gotten by this meanes the knowledge of the Lan- 
guages, least so many and great varieties, and things miraculous, whereof him- 
self had bene an eie witnes, should perish in oblivion, he committed his 
whole Travell of thirty-four yeeres to writing, in three divers tongues, English, 
French, and Latine. 2 Being arrived again in England, and having seene the 
wickednes of that age, he gave out this Speech: 'In our time, (said he) it 
may be spoken more truly then of olde, that Vertue is gone, the Church is 
under foote, the Clergie is in errour, the Devill raigneth, and Simonie beareth 
the sway.' " 

1 A town of Hertfordshire, about twenty miles north of London. 

2 They were published in 1356. 

B 2* 17 



tf 



] 8 MANDEVILLE. [EDWARD III. 

John Mandeville was indeed a remarkable man; and though England has 
since distinguished herself above all othf-r nations for the number and the 
cl araeter of her voyagers and travellers, who, for the sake of enlarging the 
bounds of geographical knowledge, have pushed their way into every part of 
the world, yet, considering the time and circumstances in which he wrote, to 
none must Sir John Mandeville give place. We must bear continually in 
mind that he wrote nearly five hundred years ago — one hundred years before 
printing was introduced into England — in an age of great ignorance, and 
eager for the marvellous and the wonderful in relation to other lands so little 
known. That he has told many ridiculous stories is no doubt true; but such 
he generally prefaces with "thei seyn," or "men seyn but I have not sene it." 
But if we charge these against him, we must also give him credit for those 
accounts which, for a long time, rested on his single and unsupported authority, 
but which later discoveries and inquiries have abundantly confirmed; — such 
as. the cultivation of pepper — the burning of widows on the funeral pile of 
their husbands — the trees which bear wool, of which clothing is made — the 
carrier pigeons — the gymnosophists — the Chinese predilection for small feet — 
the artificial egg-hatching in Egypt — the south pule star, and other astronomi- 
cal appearances, from which he argues for the spherical form of the earth — 
the crocodile — the hippopotamus — the giraffe, and many other singular pro- 
ductions of nature. "His book," says an elegant writer, "is to an Englishman 
doubly valuable, as establishing the title of his country to claim as its own, the 
first example of the liberal and independent gentleman, travelling over the 
world in the disinterested pursuit of knowledge ; unsullied in his reputation, 
and honored and respected wdierever he went for his talents and personal 
accomplishments." J 

FROM THE PROLOGUE. 9 

And for als moche 3 as it is longe tyme passed, that ther was 
no generalle Passage ne Vyage over the See ; and man}?- Men 
desiren for to here speke of the holy Lond, and han 4 thereof gret 
Solace and Comfort ; I John Maundevylle, Knyght, alle be it I be 
not worthi, that was born in Englond, in the Town of Seynt 
Albones. passed the See, in the Zeer of our Lord Jesu Crist 
MCCCXXII, in the Day of Seynt Michelle ; and hidre to 5 have 
been longe tyme over the See, and have seyn and gon thorghe 
manye dyverse Londes, and many Provynces and Kingdomesand 
lies, and have passed thorghe Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye 6 the 
litylle and the grete ; thorghe Lybye, Caldee and a gret partie 
of Ethiope ; thorghe Amazoyne, Inde the lasse and the more, a 

1 Read— an interesting article on his travels in the Retrospective Review, ill, 269 : also, No. 254 of 
the Tatler, in which Addison has ridiculed, with infinite humor, the propensity of Sir John towards 
the marvellous. 

2 In printing these extracts from Mandeville, the edition of J. O. Halliwell, London, 1839, pub- 
lished fiom a manuscript about three hundred years old, has been carefully followed. The language, 
therefoie, is such as our ancestors used more than three centuries ago, and it is here given not 
only as a curiosity, but from the belief that it will be read with more satisfaction, and convey a much 
better idea of the progress which the English language has since made, than if it were modernized. 
Before the art of printing was discovered, there was no settled method of spelling; the same word 
therefore, will be found spelled different ways. 

8 As muck. 4 Have. 5 Hitherto. 6 Armenia. 



1327-1377.] MAKDEVILLE. 19 

gret partie ; and thorghe out many othere lies, that ben abouten 
Inde ; where dwellen many dyverse FoJkes, and of dyverse Man- 
eres and Lawes, and of dyverse Schappes 1 of men. Of whiche 
Londes and lies, I schalle speke more pleynly hereaftre. And I 
schalle devise zou sum partie of thinges that there ben, whan time 
schalle ben, aftre it may best come to my mynde ; and specyally 
for hem, that wylle and are in purpos for to visite the Holy Citee 
of Jerusalem, and the holy Places that are thereaboute. And ] 
schalle telle the Weye, that thei schulle holden thidre. For 1 
have often tymes passed and ryden 2 the way, with gode Companye 
of many Lordes : God be thonked. 

And zee schulle 3 undirstonde, that I have put this Boke out 
of Latyn into Frensche, and translated it azen 4 out of Frensche 
into Englyssche, that every Man of my Nacioun may undirstonde 
it. But Lordes and Knyghtes and othere noble and* "worth! Men, 
that conne 5 Latyn but litylle, and han ben bezonde the See, 
knowen andundirstonden, zif I erre in devisynge, for forzetynge, 6 
or elles ; 7 that thei mowe 8 redresse it and amende it. For thinges 
passed out of longe tyme from a Mannes mynde or from his syght, 
turnen sone in forzetynge : Because that Mynde of Man ne may 
not ben comprehended ne withe holden, for the Freeltee of Man- 
kynde. 9 

THE CHINESE. 

The gret Kyng bathe every day, 50 fair Damyseles, alle 
Maydenes, that serven him everemore at his Mete. And whan 
he is at the Table, thei bryngen him hys Mete at every tyme, 5 
and 5 to gedre. And in bryngynge hire 10 Servyse, thei syngen 
a Song. And aftre that, thei kutten his Mete, and putten it in 
his Mouthe : for he touchethe no thing ne handlethe nought, but 
holdethe evere more his Hondes before him, upon the Table. For 
he hathe so longe Nayles, that he may take no thing, ne handle 
no thing. For the Noblesse of that Contree is to have longe 
Nayles, and to make hem growen alle weys to ben as longe as 
men may. And there ben manye in that Contree, that han hire 

1 Shapes. 2 Ridden. 3 Should. 4 Again. 5 Know. 6 Forgetting. 7 Else. 8 May. 

9 At a period when Europe could hardly boast of three leisurely wayfarers stealing over the face 
of the universe; when the Orient still remained but a Land of Fairy, and the "map of the world" 
was yet unfinished; at a time when it required a whole life to traverse a space which three years 
might now terminate, Sir John Mandeville, the Bruce of the fourteenth century, set forth to enter 
unheard-of regions. His probity remains unimpeached, for the accuracy of what he relates from his 
own personal observation has been confirmed by subsequent travellers. But when he had to de 
scribe the locality of Paradise, he fairly acknowledges that he "cannot speak of it properly, for I was 
not there : it is far beyond, but as I have heard say of wise men, it is on the highest part of the 
earth, nigh to the circle of the moon." So popular were his travels, that of no book, with the. excep- 
tion of the Scriptures, can more manuscripts of that time be found. Read— an article m D'Isr»eU'» 
Amenities of Literature, vol. i., and HalMioeU's Introduction to Mandeoilie'i Travels. 

10 lkeir. 



20 MANDEVILLE. [RICHARD II. 

Nayles so longe, that thei envyronne alle the Hond : and that is a 
gret Noblesse. And the Noblesse of the Women, is for to haven 
smale Feet and litille : and therfore anon as thei ben born, they 
leet bynde hire Feet so streyte, that thei may not growen half as 
nature wolde : And alle weys theise Damyseles, that I spak of 
beforn, syngen alle the tyme that this riche man etethe : and when 
that he etethe no more of his flrste Cours, thanne other 5 and 5 
of faire Damyseles bryngen him his seconde Cours, alle weys 
syngynge, as thei dide beforn. And so thei don contynuelly 
every day, to the ende of his Mete. And in this manere he 
ledethe his Lif. And so dide thei before him, that weren his 
Auncestres ; and so schulle thei that comen aftre him, with outen 
doynge of ony Dedes of Armes : but iyven evere more thus in 
ese, as a Swjm, that is fedde in Sty, for to ben made fatte. 

THE SPHERICAL FORM OF THE EARTH. 1 

In that Lond, 3 ne in many othere bezonde that, no man may 
see the Sterre transmontane, 3 that is clept the Sterre of the See, 
that is unmevable, and that is toward the Northe, that we clepen 
the Lode Sterre. 4 But men seen another Sterre, the contrarie to 
him, that is toward the Southe, that is clept 5 Antartyk. And 
right as the Schip men taken here Avys 6 here, and governe hem 
be the Lode Sterre, right so don Schip men bezonde the parties, 
be the Sterre of the Southe, the whiche Sterre apperethe not to 
us. And this Sterre, that is toward the Northe, that wee clepen 
the Lode Sterre, ne appearethe not to hem. For whiche cause, 
men may wel percey ve, that the Lond and the See ben of rownde 
schapp and forme. For the partie of the Firmament schewethe 
in o 7 Contree, that schewethe not in another Contree. And men 
may well preven be experience and sotyle 8 compassement of 
Wytt, that zif a man fond passages be Schippes, that wolde go to 
serchen the World, men myghte go be Schippe alle aboute the 
World, and aboven and benethen. And zif I hadde had Com- 
panye and Schippynge, for to go more bezonde, I trowe 9 wel in 
certeyn, that wee scholde have seen alle the roundnesse of the 
Firmament alle aboute. 

But how it semethe to symple men unlerned, that men ne 
mowe 10 not go undre the Erthe, and also that men scholde falle 
toward the Hevene, from undre ! But that may not be, upon 

1 This, it seems to me, is a most curious and remarkable passage, for we must remember that it 
was written nearly one hundred and fifty years before the discovery of America. It proves, beyond 
a docibt, that Mandeville had a distinct idea of the rotundity of the earth, and probably of the New 
World, and that, if he had had the means, he would undoubtedly have anticipated, by more than a 
century, the brilliant discovery of Columbus. 

» Africa. 3 The pole star. 4 That is, the star to which the loadstone or magnet points. 

» Called Advice. 1 One. 8 Subtle. 9 Think. 10 May not, that is, cannot. 



1377-1399.] wiclif. 21 

lesse, 1 than wee mowe falle toward Hevene, fro the Erthe, where 
wee oen. For fro what partie of the Erthe, that men duelled 
outher aboven or benethen, it semethe alweys to hem that duellen, 
that thei gon more righte than ony other folk. And righte as it 
semethe to us, that thei ben undre us, righte so it semethe hem, 
that wee ben undre hem. For zif a man myghte falle fro the 
Erthe unto the Firmament ; be grettere resoun, the Erthe and the 
See, that ben so grete and so hevy, scholde fallen to the Firma- 
ment : but that may not be. 



JOHN WICLIF. 1324—1384. 

John - Wiclif, the Morning Star of the Reformation, " honored of God to he 
the first Preacher of a general Reformation to all Europe ;" 3 was born in the 
little village of Wiclif, near Richmond, in the northern part of Yorkshire, 
about the year 1 324. Where he received the rudiments of his education is 
not known, but at a suitable age he entered the University of Oxford, where 
he soon distinguished himself, not only in the scholastic philosophy of the 
times, in which he surpassed all his contemporaries, but also in the study and 
interpretation of the Scriptures; so that he acquired the title of Evangelical 
or Gospel Doctor. In 1361 he was promoted to the headship of Canterbury 
Hall, and soon after, from witnessing the ecclesiastical corruptions which so 
extensively prevailed, he began to attack, both in his sermons and othei 
pieces, not ouly the whole body of Monks, but also the encroachments and 
tyranny of the church of Rome. 

He had now fairly entered into that arena which he was to quit only with 
his life. To enter, however, into the particulars of his eventful life — the con 
tinued and most bitter persecutions he ever experienced at the hands of eccle 
siastical power — his fearless and manly defences of himself — the bulls issued 
against him by the Pope — his appearance before august convocations to an 
swer for himself, touching the same — his providential escapes from the snares 
set for him by his enemies — to enter into these and other numerous and 
eventful incidents of his most active life, would be quite impracticable in the 
limited space prescribed for these biographical sketches. 4 

Milton, in his " Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing," thus re- 
marks : " Had it not been for the obstinate perverseness of our Prelate3 
against the divine and admirable spirit of Wiclif, to suppress him as a schis- 
matic or innovator, perhaps neither the Bohemian Husse and Terome, no, nor 
the name of Luther or of Calvin, had ever been known." And Milton is 
undoubtedly right. Far be it from us to say any thing that would detract, in 
the least degree, from the merits of the great German Reformer. The 
name of Luther is endeared to the whole Protestant world, and will ever be 
cherished as long as holy zeal, and moral courage, and untiring ardor in the 

1 Unless. 2 Dwell, live. 3 Milton. 

4 The reader may consult The Life and Opinions of John Wiclif, by Robert Vaughan, 8vo: The Life 
of Wiclif by Professor Charles Webb Le Bos, London, 12mo : The Life of Wiclif, Kith an appendix and lint 
of his works, l2mo, Edinburgh, 1826. If none of these is accessible, there is a little work Qt Professor 
Pond, entitled " Wicl'if and his Times." 



22 WICLIF. [EICHAKD II. 

best ot ( auses, have an advocate on earth. But in some respects Wiclif claims 
precedence of Luther. We must ever bear in mind that he was two hundred 
years before him, and that he lived in a darker night of ignorance, and when 
the papal power was in its fullest strength. Wiclif, too, stood comparatively 
alone ; for though countenanced by the mother of the king, and by the power- 
ful Duke of Lancaster, yet he met with no support that deserved to be com- 
pared with that retinue of powerful patronage which gave effect to the exer- 
tions of Luther. " Allowing, however," (says Professor Le Bas,) " if we must, 
to Luther, the highest niche in this sacred department of the Temple of 
Renown, I know not who can be chosen to fill the next, if it shall be denied 
to Wiclif"! 

Wiclif died December 30, 1384, of a stroke of the palsy, continuing to the 
very end of life to labor with increasing zeal in that holy cause to which he 
had devoted himself in his earlier years. His inveterate enemies, the papal 
clergy, betrayed an indecent joy at his death, and the Council of Constance, 2 
thirty years after, decreed that his remains should be disinterred and scattered. 
The order was obeyed, and what were supposed to be the ashes of Wiclif 
were cast into an adjoining brook, one of the branches of the Avon. " And 
thus," says old Fuller, the historian, " this brook did convey his ashes into 
Avon ; Avon into Severn ; Severn into the narrow sea ; and this into the wide 
ocean. And so the ashes of Wiclif are the emblem of his doctrine, which is 
now dispersed all the world over." 3 

The character of Wiclif was marked by piety, benevolence, and ardent 
zeal, to which was added great severity, and even austerity of manners, 
such as befitted the first great champion of religious liberty. In the extent 
and variety of his knowledge he surpassed all the learned men of his age; 
and the number of his writings still extant, though very many were burnt 
both before and after his death by order of the Pope, is truly astonishing. 
Most of these now exist in manuscript, in the public libraries in England and 
Ireland, and some in the Imperial Library at Vienna. His great work was 
the translation of the Scriptures, and to him belongs the high honor of having 

1 "In all stages of society, those unquestionably deserve the highest praise, who outstep the rest 
of their contemporaries ; who rise up in solitary majesty amidst a host of prejudices and errors, com- 
bating intrepidly on one side, though assailed and weakened on another. The merit consists in 
setting the example ; in exhibiting a pattern after which others may work. It is easy to follow 
where there is one to lead; but to be the first to strike out into a new and untried way, in whatever 
state of society it may be found, marks a genius above the common order. Such men are entitled to 
everlasting gratitude." Read — Burnett's English Prose Writers. 

2 A town in Switzerland on the west of the lake of the same name. This papal Council, which met 
la 1414, condemned John Huss and Jerome of Prague, who were both burnt at the stake. 

8 Wordsworth has thus beautifully expressed this thought :— 

Wiclif is disinhumed ; 

Yea— his dry bones to ashes are consumed, 

And flung into the brook that travels near: 

Forthwith, that ancient voice which streams can hear, 

Thus speaks— (that voice which walks upon the wind, 

Though seldom heard by busy human kind:) 

• As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear 

Into the Avon — Avon to the tide 

Of Severn— Severn to the narrow seas — 

Into main ocean they— this deed accurst, 

An emblem yields to friends and enemies, 

How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified 

By truth, shall spretvd throughout the world dispersed.* 



1377-1399.] wiclif. 23 

given to the English nation the first translation of the entire Scriptures in their 
mother tongae, which he made, however, not from the original languages, but 
from the Latin Vulgate. The following are Lib reasons for this great under- 
taking : J 

wiclif's apology. 

Ob Lord God ! sithin 2 at the beginning of faith, so many men 
translated into Latin, and to great profit of Latin men ; let one 
simple creature of (jrod translate into English, for profit of English- 
men. For, if worldly clerks look well their chronicles and books, 
they shoulden find, that Bede translated the Bible, and expounded 
much in Saxon, that was English, either 3 common language of 
this land, in his time. And not only Bede, but king Alfred, that 
founded Oxenford, translated in his last days, the beginning of the 
Psalter into Saxon, and would more, if he had lived longer. Also 
Frenchmen, Bemers, 4 and Britons han 5 the Bible and other books 
of devotion and exposition translated into their mother language. 
Why shoulden not Englishmen have the same in their mother 
language ? I cannot wit. 6 No, but for falseness and negligence 
of clerks, 7 either for 8 our people is not worthy to have so great 
grace and gift of God, in pain of their old sins. 

THE ALL-SUFFICIENCY OF THE SCRIPTURES. 

Christian men and women, old and young, shoulden study fast 
in the New Testament, and that no simple man of wit should be 
aferde immeasurably to study in the text of holy writ ; that pride 
and covetisse of clerks, 7 is cause of their blindness and heresy, and 
priveth them fro very understanding of holy writ. That the 
New Testament is of full autority, and open to understanding of 
simple men, as to the points that ben most needful to salvation ; 
that the text of holy writ ben word of everlasting life, and that he 
that keepeth meekness and charity, hath the true understanding 
and perfection of all holy writ ; that it seemeth open heresy to 
say that the Gospel with his truth and freedom sufriceth not to 

1 For this noble labor, which he completed in 1380, he received abuse without measure from the 
priests. The following is but a mild specimen of papal rage. It is from one Henry Knyghton, a 
contemporary priest. "This master John "VViclif translated out of Latin into English, the Gospel 
which Christ had intrusted with the clergy and doctors of the church, that they might minister it to 
the laity and weaker sort, according to the exigency of times and their several occasions. So that 
by this means the Gospel is made vulgar, and laid more open to the laity, and even to women who 
could read, than it used to be to the most learned of the clergy, and those of the best understanding. 
And so the Gospel jewel, or evangelical pearJ, is thrown about and trodden under foot of swine." 
— Even in the third year of Henry V., (1415,) it was enacted fcj a Parliament held in Leicester, " that 
whosoever they were that should read the Scriptures in their mother tongue," (wh'ch was then 
called Wiclif's learning,) "they should forfeit land, cattle, body, life, and goods, from their heirs for- 
ever, and be condemned for heretics to God, enemies to the crown, and most arrant traitors to the 
land." 

2 Since. 3 Or. i Bohemians. 5 Have. 6 Know, or tell. 1 Scholars. 8 Or because. 



24 WICLIF. [RICHARD II. 

salvation of Christian men, without keeping of ceremonies and 
statutes of sinful men and uncunning, that ben made in the time 
of Satanas and of Anti-Christ ; that men ought to desire only the 
truth and freedom of the holy Gospel, and to accept man's law 
and ordinances only in as much as they ben grounded in holy 
scripture, either good reason and common profit of Christian peo- 
ple. That if an}^ man in earth either angel of heaven teacheth 
us the contrary of holy writ, or any thing ap;ainst reason and 
charity, we should flee from him in that, as fro the foul fiend of 
hell, and hold us stedfastly to life and death, to tne truth and free- 
dom of the holy Gospel of Jesus Christ ; and take us meekly 
men's sayings and laws, only in as much as they accorden with 
holy writ and good consciences ; no further, for life, neither for 
death. 

And so (says Wiclif) they would condemn the Holy Ghost, 
that gave it in tongues to the apostles of Christ, as it is written, to 
speak the word of God in all languages that were ordained of God 
under heaven, as it is written. 

MATTHEW, CHAP. V. 1 

And Jhesus seynge the peple, went up into an hil ; and whanne 
he was sett, his disciplis camen to him. And he openyde his 
mouthe, and taughte hem ; and seide, Blessid be pore men in 
spirit ; for the kyngdom of hevenes is herun. 3 Blessid ben mylde 
men : for thei schulenweelde the erthe. Blessid ben thei that 
mournen ; for thei schal be coumfortid. Blessid be thei that 
hungren and thirsten rightwisnesse : 3 for thei schal be fulfilled. 
Blessed ben merciful men : for thei schul gete mercy. Blessed 
ben thei that ben of clene herte : for thei schulen se God. Blessid 
ben pesible men : for thei schulen be clepid goddis children. 
Blessid ben thei that suffren persecucioun for rightwisnesse : for 
the kyngdom of hevenes is hern. Ye schul be blessid whanne 
men schul curse you, and schul pursue you: and schul seye al 
yvel agens you liynge for me. Joie ye and be ye glade : for your 
meede is plenteous in hevenes : for so thei han pursued also pro- 
phetis that weren bifore you. Ye ben salt of the erthe, that if the 
salt vanishe awey wherynne schal it be salted ? to nothing it is 
worth over, no but it be cast out, and be defoulid of men, Ye ben 
light of the world, a citee set on an hill may not be hid. Ne men 
teendith not a lanterne and puttith it undir a bushel : but on a 
candilstik that it give light to alle that ben in the hous. So, 
schyne your light bifore men, that thei see youre gode workis, 
and glorifie your fadir that is in hevenes. Nyle ghe deme that 

i The original spelling is preserved in this extract from Wielif's Bihle as a curiosity. 
8 Theirs. 3 Rightfulnesse, ia many manuscripts. 



1377-1399.] barbour. 25 

I cam to undo the Lawe or the prophetis, I cam not to undo the 
Jawe but to fulfille. Forsothe I sey to you till hevene and erthe 
passe, oon lettre, or oon title, schal not passe fro the Lawe til alle 
thingis be don. Therefore he that brekith oon of these leeste 
maundementis, and techith thus men, schal be clepid the Leest in 
the rewme of hevenes : but he that doth, and techith, schal be 
ciepid greet in the kyngdom of hevenes. 



JOHN BARBOUR. 1326—1396. 



Among the very earliest of the poets of Scotland was John Barbour, Arch- 
deacon of Aberdeen. But very little is known of his personal history. The 
only work of consequence which he has left, is entitled " Bruce." It is a 
metrical history of Robert the First (13Q6 — 1329) — of his exertions and 
achievements for the recovery of the independence of Scotland, including the 
principal transactions of his reign. Barbour, therefore, is to be considered in 
the double character of historian and poet. As he flourished in the age im- 
mediately following that of his hero, he enjoyed the advantage of hearing, 
from eye-witnesses themselves, narratives of the war for liberty. As a his- 
tory, his work is good authority. He himself boasts of its "soothfastness ;" 
and the lofty sentiments and vivid descriptions with which it abounds, prove 
the author to have been fitted by feeling and principle, as well as by situation, 
for the task which he undertook. 

As many of the words in Barbour are now obsolete, we will give but 
one quotation from his heroic poem. After the painful description of the 
slavery to which Scotland was reduced by Edward I., he breaks out in the 
following noble Apostrophe to Freedom. It is in a style of poetical feeling 
uncommon not only in that but many subsequent ages, and has been quoted 
with high praise by the most distinguished Scottish historians and critics. 

"A! fredome is a nobill thing! 
Fredome mayse man to haiff liking! 
Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
He levys at ese that frely levys ! 
A noble hart may haiff nane ese, 
Na ellys nocht that may him plese, 
GyfF fredome failythe : for fre liking 
Is yearnyt our all othir thing. 
Na he, that ay hase levyt fre, 
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, 
The angyr, na the wretchyt dome, 
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. 
Bot gyff he had assayit it, 
Then all perquer he suld it wyt; 
And suld think fredome mar to pryse 
Than all the gold in warld that is." [ 



1 The following paraphrase of the above lines is taken from Chambers's Biographical Dictionary 
Of Eminent Scotsmen : — 

Ah ! freedom is a noble tiling, 
And can to life a relish bring ; 

3 



26 CHAUCER. [RICHARD II. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 1328—1400. 



That renowned Poet 



Dan Chaucer, Well of English undefyled, 

On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled. 

Spenser. 
That noble Chaucer, in those former times, 
Who first enriched our English with his rhymes, 
And was the first of ours that ever broke 
Into the Muse's treasures, and first spoke 
In mighty numbers ; delving in the mine 
Of perfect knowledge. Wordsworth. 

We now come to one of the brightest names in English literature — to him 
who has been distinctively known as " The Father of English poetry" — 
Geoffrey Chaucer. Warton, with great beauty and justice, has compared the 
appearance of Chaucer in our language to " a premature day in an English 
spring, after which the gloom of winter returns, and the buds and blossoms 
which have been called forth by a transient sunshine, are nipped by frosts 
and scattered by storms." 

Chaucer was born probably about the year 1328, though all attempts to fix 
the precise year have utterly failed. His parentage is unknown, nor is there 
any certainty where he was educated. Hi* great genius early attracted the 
notice of the reigning sovereign, Edward III., and he soon became the most 
popular personage in the brilliant court of that monarch. It was in this circle 
of royalty that he became attached to a lady whom he afterwards married, 
Philippa Pyknard. She was maid of honor to the queen Philippa, and a 
younger sister of the wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. By this 
connection, therefore, Chaucer acquired the powerful support of the Lancas- 
trian family, and during his life his fortune fluctuated with theirs. To his 
courtly accomplishments he added much by foreign travel, having been com- 
missioned by the king in 1372 to attend to some important matters of state at 
Genoa. While in Italy he became acquainted with Petrarch, 1 and probably 
with Boccacio, whose works enriched his mind with fresh stores of learning 

Freedom all solace to man gives ; 

He lives at ease that freely lives. 

A noble heart may have no ease, 

Nor aught beside that may it please, 

If freedom fail— for 'tis the choice, 

More than the chosen, man enjoys. 

Ah, he that ne'er yet lived in thrall, 

Knows not the weary pains which gall 

The limbs, the soul, of him who plains 

In slavery's foul and festering chains. 

If these he knew, I ween right soon 

He would seek back the precious boon 

Of freedom, which he then would prize 

More than all wealth beneath the skies. 
1 The three distinguished scholars of Italy of the fourteenth century were, Dante, (1285—1321,) 
the father of modern Italian poetry; Petrarch, (1304—1374,) the reviver of ancient learning, and 
the lii'-t founder and collector of any considerable library of ancient literature: and Boccacto, (1313 
— 1375,) thp father oi modern Italian prose. 



1877-1399.] chaucer. 27 

and images oi beauty, and whose great success was dcnbtless a spur to his 
ambition to attain a iike enviable fame. 

On his return home, the friendship and patronage of the reigning monarch 
were continued to him. He was made controller of the customs of wine and 
wool, the revenue from which office, together with a pension that was granted 
to him, gave him a liberal support. During the whole of the reign of Edward 
III., his genius and connections ensured to him prosperity, and also during 
the period of John of Gaunt's influence in the succeeding reign of Richard 
II., 1377 — 1399. But during the waning fortunes of that nobleman, Chaucer 
also suffered, and was indeed imprisoned for a short time; but on the return 
of the Duke of Lancaster from Spain, 1389, he had once more a steady pro- 
tector, and on the accession of Henry IV., he had an additional annuity con- 
ferred upon him. But he did not live long to enjoy this accession to his for- 
tune, for he died on the twenty -fifth of October, 1400, and was interred in 
Westminster Abbey. 

We know little of Chaucer as a member of society ; but we know that he 
had mingled with the world's affairs, both at home and abroad. Accom- 
plished in manners and intimately acquainted with a splendid court, he was 
at once the philosopher who had surveyed mankind in their widest sphere, 
the poet who haunted the solitudes of nature, and the elegant courtier whose 
opulent tastes are often discovered in the graceful pomp of his descriptions. 
The vigorous yet finished paintings, with which his works abound, are still, 
notwithstanding die roughness of their clothing, beauties of a highly poetical 
nature. The ear may not always be satisfied, but the mind of the reader is 
always filled. 1 

Chaucer's genius, like Cowper's, was not fully developed till he was ad- 
vanced in years; for it was not until he was about sixty, in the calm evening 
of a busy life, that he composed his great work on which his fame chiefly 
rests, his Canterbury Tales. He took the idea, doubtless, from the De- 
cameron of Boccacio, 2 at that time one of the most popular of books. He 
supposes that a company of pilgrims, consisting of twenty-nine "sundry folk," 
meet together at the Tabard inn, Southwark, 3 on their way to the shrine of 
Thomas a Becket, 4 at Canterbury. While at supper they agreed, at the sug- 
gestion of their host, not only to pursue their journey together the next morn- 
ing, but, in order to render their way the more interesting, that each should 
divert the others with a tale, both in going and returning, and diat whoever 
told the best, should have a supper at the expense of die rest; and that the 
landlord should be the judge. 

It will thus be seen that the plan of Chaucer is vastly superior to that of 
Boccacio. His characters, instead of being youthful and from the same city, 



1 Read Hippvsleifs Early English Literature: also, Todd's Illustrations of Goicer and Chaucer. "I take 
unceasing delight in Chaucer. His manly cheerfulness is especially delicious in my old age. How 
exquisitely tender he is."— Coleridge's Table Talk. Read, also, Chaucer Modernized, 1 vol. 12mo, with 
a well-written introduction on English poetry by R. H. Home, and versifications by Wordsworth, 
Leigh Hunt, and others. 

2 Boccacio supposes that when the plague began to abate in Florence, (1348,) ten young persons of 
both sexes retired to the country to enjoy the fresh air, and pass ten days agreeably. (Hence the 
name Decameron, from the Greek 6ekcl (deka) "ten," and )'mspa {hemera) "a day." Their princi- 
pal amusement was in telling tales in turn ; and as each of the ten told a story a day, and as thev 
continued together ten days, the Decameron consists of one hundred tales. 

3 Opposite the city of London, on the Thames. 

* For the murder of this famous archbishop in the reign of Henry II., A. D. 1171, see Hvstonj of 
Sr and. Canterbury is J3 miles south-east from London. 



28 CHAUCER. [HENRY IV. 

are of matured experience, from various places, and are drawn from different 
classes of mankind, and consequently are, in their rank, appearance, man- 
ners, and habits, as various as at that time could be found in the several 
departments of middle life; that is, in fact, as various as could, with any pro- 
bability, be brought together, so as to form one company ; the highest and 
lowest ranks of society being necessarily excluded. But what gives us the 
greatest admiration of the poet, is the astonishing skill with which he has 
supported his characters, and the exquisite address that he has shown in 
adapting his stories to the different humors, sentiments, and talents of the re- 
citers. He has thus given us such an accurate picture of ancient manners as 
no contemporary writer has transmitted to posterity, and in the Canterbury 
Tales we view the pursuits and employments, the customs and diversions of 
the reign of Edward III., copied from the life, and represented with equal 
truth and spirit. It has been justly remarked, that it was no inferior combi- 
nation of observation and sympathy which could bring together into one 
company the many-colored conditions and professions of society, delineated 
with pictorial force, and dramatized by poetic conception, reflecting them- 
selves in the tale which seemed most congruous to their humors. 1 The fol- 
lowing are some select characters, as portrayed in the Prologue. 2 

THE PROLOGUE. 

Whenne that April, with his showres sote, 3 
The drouth of March hath pierced to the rote, 4 
And bathed every vein in such licour, 
Of which virtue engendred is the flow'i ; 
When Zephirus eke, with his sote 3 breath, 
Inspired hath in every holt 5 and heath 
The tender croppes, and the younge sun 
Hath in the Ram 6 his halfe course yrun, 
And smalle fowles maken melody, 
That sleepen alle night with open eye, 
So pricketh them nature in their courages, 7 
Then longen folk to go on pilgrimages, 
And palmers for to seeken strange strands, 
To serve hallows 8 couth 9 in sundry lands ; 
And 'specially from every shire's end 
Of Engleland to Canterbury they wend, 10 
— — # . 

1 Read D'IsraelPs Amenities of Literature, 3 vols. 8vo. 

2 In a subsequent age, the great work of Chaucer exerted a powerful influence in helping on the 
great cause of the Reformation. So much was Cardinal Wolsey offended at the severity with which 
the papal clergy were treated in the Pilgrim's Tale, that he laid an interdict upon its ever being 
printed with the rest of the work, and it was with difficulty that the Ploughman's Tale was per- 
mitted to stand. John Fox, (1517—1587,) the historian of the martyrs, thus writes: "But much 
more I mervaile to consider this, how that the bishops condemning and abolishing all maner of 
English bookes and treatises, which might bring the people to any light of knowledge, did yet au- 
thorize the Worke3 of Chaucer to remaine. So it pleased God to blind then the eies of them, for the 
wore commodoty of his people." 

3 Sote— sweet. 4 Rote— root. 6 Holt— grove, forest. 

6 To make this line consistent with the first, it should read Bull instead of Ram, for he says that 
the time of this pilgrimage was when the showers of April had pierced into the root the drought of 
March, so that April, which corresponds to the constellation of the Bull, must have been far advanced 
Read, Tyrwhitt's Introduction to Canterbury Tales. 

1 Courages — hearts, spirits. 8 Hallows— holiness. 9 Couth — known. 

10 Wena- go, make way. 



1399-1413.] chaucer. 29 

The holy blissful martyr for to seek 

That them hath holpen when that they were s.ek. 

Befell that in that season on a day, 
In South wark at the Tabard x as I lay, 
Ready to wenden 2 on my pilgrimage 
To Canterbury with devout courage ; 
At night was come into that hostelry 
Well nine-and-twenty in a company 
Of sundry folk, by aventure yfall 
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all 
That toward Canterbury woulden ride. 
The chambers and the stables weren wide, 3 
And well we weren eased 4 atte best. 

THE KNIGHT AND SQUIRE. 

A Knight there was, and that a worthy man 
That from the time that he first began 
To riden out, he loved chivalry, 
Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy. 
Full worthy was he in his lordes war, 
And thereto had he ridden, no man farre. 5 
As well in Christendom as in -Heatheness, 
And ever honour , d for his worthiness. 

With him there was his son, a younge Squire, 
A lover and a lusty bachelor, 
With lockes curl'd as they were laid in press ; 
Of twenty years of age he was I guess. 
Of his stature he was of even length, 
And wonderly deliver, 6 and great of strength ; 
And he had been some time in chevachie, 7 
In Flaunders, in Artois, and in Picardie, 
And borne him well, as of so little space, 8 
In hope to standen in his lady's grace. 

Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead 
All full of freshe flowres white and red : 
Singing he was or floyting 9 all the day ; 
He was as fresh as is the month of May : 
Short was his gown, with sleeve's long and wide ; 
Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride : 
He coulde songes make, and well endite, 
Joust and eke dance, and well pourtray and write : 
So hot he loved, that by nightertale 10 
He slept no more than doth the nightingale : 
Courteous he was, lowly and serviceable, 
And carv'd before his father at the table. 

l That is, the inn called "The Tabard." The Tabard was a "jacket, or sleeveless coat, worn in 
times past by noblemen in the wars, but now only by heralds, and is called theii coat of arms in 
service."— Speght. 2 "Wenden — go, make way. 3 wide; — spacious. * Eased atte best- - 

commodiously lodged. 5 Farre— farther. 6 Wonderly deliver— wonderfully active : from the 

French fibre, free. T Chevachie, (French, chevauchee,) a military expedition. 8 Conducted 

himself well, considering the short time that he had served. 9 Floyting— fluting, playing on the 

flute, whistling. The squire would not, in all probability, have a flute always with him. 1 snoula 
therefore prefer the reading that he " whistled all the day :" as being a more natural touch #>r charac- 
ter, as well as in keeping with the hilarity of youth. 10 Nightertale— night-time. 

.3* 



30 CHAUCEH. [HENKY IV. 



THE CLERK. 1 

A Clerk 2 there was of Oxenford also, 
That unto logic hadde long ygo. 3 
As leane was his horse as is a rake, 
And he was not right fat I undertake, 
But looked hollow, and thereto soberly. 
Full threadbare was his overest courtepyj 
For he bad gotten him yet no benefice, 
Nor was nought worldly to have an office 
For him was lever 5 have at his bed's head 
Twenty bookes clothed in black or red 
Of Aristotle and his philosophy, 
Than robes rich, or fiddle or psaltry: 
But all be that he was a philosopher 
Yet hadde he but little gold in coffer, 
But all that he might of his friendes hent, 6 
On bookes and on learning he it spent, 
And busily 'gan for the soules pray 
Of them that gave him wherewith to scholay. 7 
Of study took he moste cure and heed ; 
Not a word spake he more than was need, 
And that was said in form and reverence, 
And short and quick, and full of high sentence : 8 
Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, 
And gladly would he learn and gladly teach. 

THE WIFE. 

A good Wife was there of beside Bath, 
But she was some deal deaf, and that was scathe. 9 
Of cloth-making she hadde such a haunt 10 
She passed them of Ypres and of Ghent. 
In all the parish, wife ne was there none 
That to the off'ring before her shoulde gone, 
And if there did, certain so wroth was she, 
That she was out of alle charity. 
Her coverchiefs 11 weren full fine of ground ; 
I durste swear they weigheden a pound, 
That on the Sunday were upon her head : 
IJer hosed weren of fine scarlet red, 
Full strait ytied, and shoes full moist 12 and new • 
Bold was her face, and fair and red of hew. 
She was a worthy woman all her live ; 
Husbands at the church door had she had five. 13 

l In the interesting character of the "clerk" or scholar, whose poverty, delight in study, and in- 
attention to worldly affairs are eminently conspicuous, Warton thinks that Chaucer glanced at the 
nattention paid to literature, and the unprofitableness of philosophy. 

■i That is, a scholar. 3 Ygo— part, pust, gone. 4 Overest courtepy— uppermost short cloak. 

5 Lever— rather. 6 Hent^catch hold of. 7 Scholay— study. 8 High sentence — i. e. lofty 

period. 9 Scathe— harm, damage. 10 Haunt— custom. 11 Head-dress. 12 Moist — fresh. 

13 This alludes to the old custom of the parties joining hands at the door of the church before they 
went up to the altar to consummate the union; and this jolly dame and good housewife is repre» 
neoted as having gone through that interesting ceremony five times. 



1899-1413.] chaucer. SI 

THE PARSON. 1 

A good man there was of religion, 
That was a poore Parson of a town, 
But rich he was of holy thought and work , 
He was also a learned man, a Clerk, 
That Christes gospel truly woulde preach; 
His parishens 2 devoutly would he teach ; 
Benign he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversity full patient, 
And such he was yproved often sithes : 3 
Full loth were him to cursen for his tithes ; 
But rather would he given out of doubt 
Unto his poore parishens about 
Of his offring, and eke of his substance ; 
He could in little thing have sumsance :* 
Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, 
But he ne left nought for no ram nor thunder, 
In sickness and in mischief, to visit 
The farthest in his parish much and lite 5 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff: 
This noble 'nsample to his sheep he yaf, 6 
That first he wrought, and afterward he taught, 
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added yet thereto, 
That if gold ruste what should iron do ? 
For if a priest be foul on whom we trust, 
No wonder is a lawed 7 man to rust; 
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep 
To see a " fouled" shepherd and clean sheep : 
Well ought a priest ensample for to give 
By his cleanness how his sheep should live. 

He sette not his benefice to hire, 
And let his sheep accumbred 8 in the mire, 
And ran unto London unto Saint Poule's 
To seeken him a chantery 9 for souls, 
Or with a brotherhood to be withold ; 10 
But dwelt at home and kepte well his fold, 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry ; 
He was a shepherd and no mercenary ; 
As though he holy were, and virtuous, 
He was to sinful men not dispitous, 11 ^ 

Ne of his speeche dangerous 12 ne digne; 13 
But in his teaching discreet and benign. 

1 In describing the sanctity, simplicity, sincerity, patience, industry, courage, and conscient'wma 
impartiality of this excellent parish-priest, Chaucer, as Warton observes, has shown his good setine 
and good heart. Is not Goldsmith indebted to it for some of the beautiful traits in the character of 
his Village Preacher, in the Deserted Village ? 

2 Parishens — parishioners. 3 Sithes — times. 4 Suffisance— sufficiency. & Much and 
lite — great and small. 6 Yaf— gave. i Lewed — ignorant. 8 Accumbred — encumbered. 

9 Chantery. An endowment for the payment of a priest to sing mass agreeably to the appoint 
ment of the founder. There were thirty-five of these chantries established at St. Paul's, which were 
served by fifty-four priests. — Dugdale, Hist. pre/, p. 41. 10 Withold— withholden, withheld 

11 Dispitous— inexorable, angry to excess. IS Dangerous— sparing. 13 Digne — proud, disdainful 



32 CHAUCER. [HENRY IV. 

To drawen folk to heaven with faireness, 

By good ensample, was his business ; 

Ent it were 1 any person obstinate, 

What so he were of high or low estate, 

Him would he snibben 2 sharply for the nones: 3 

A better priest I trow that no where none is. 

He waited after no pomp or reverence, 

Ne maked him no spiced conscience ; 

But Christes lore, 4 and his apostles twelve 

He taught, but first he followed it himselve. 

But the Canterbury Tales are by no means the only production of Chaucer's 
muse. He has written many other poems containing passages equal to any 
thing found in his chief work. The following are the principal. 

Troiltjs and Creseide. This is in five books, " in which the vicissitudes 
of love are depicted in a strain of true poetry, with much pathos and simpli- 
city of sentiment." The author calls it " a litill tragedie." On the whole, 
however, it is rather tedious, from, its innumerable digressions. For instance, 
Troilus declaims, for about one hundred lines, on the doctrine of predesti- 
nation. 

Romattnt of the Rose. This is an allegory, depicting the difficulties and 
dangers encountered by a lover in pursuit of the object of his affections, who 
is set forth under the emblem of the rose. He traverses vast ditches, scales 
lofty walls, and forces the gates of adamantine and almost impregnable castles. 
These enchanted fortresses are all inhabited by various divinities, some of 
which assist, and some oppose the lover's progress. Thus this poem furnishes 
a great variety of rich and beautiful descriptions — paintings most true to 
nature. 

The House oe Fahe. This is represented under the form of a dream, and 
consists of three books. It abounds in lively and vigorous description, in dis- 
quisitions on natural philosophy, and in sketches of human nature of no com 
mon beauty. The poet, in a vision, sees a temple of glass, on the walls of 
which are displayed in portraitures the history of .ZEneas, abridged from 
Virgil. After looking around him, he sees aloft, " fast by the sun," a gigantic 
eagle, which souses down, and bears him off in his talons through the upper 
regions of air, leaving clouds, tempests, hail, and snow far beneath him, and 
at length arrives among the celestial signs of the Zodiac. Here his journey . 
ends. The « House of Fame" is before him. It is built of materials bright 
as polished glass, wnd stands on a rock of ice of excessive height, and almost 
inaccessible. All the southern side of the rock is covered with the names of 
famous men, which were perpetually melting away by the heat of the sun; 
but those on the northern side remained unmelted and uneffaced. The poet 
dien enters the building, and beholds the Goddess of Fame, seated upon a 
throne of sculptured carbuncle. Before her appear the various candidates for 
her favor ; and here the poet has admirably improved the wide field before 
nim in describing the capricious judgment of the fickle deity in awarding her 
favors. 

Pope, in his "Temple of Fame," has imitated Chaucer to a considerable 
extent, as may be seen by comparing various passages in each author. 

1 But it were— should it happen that any one were, &c. 2 Snibben— rebuke. 

« Foi the nones— for the occasion. 4 Lore— lear ning, doctrine. 



1399-1413.] chaucer. 33 

THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT WITH THE POET. 

And I adown 'gan looken tho, 1 
And beheld fieldes and plaines, 
Now hilles and now mountaines, 
Now valleys and now forestes, 
And now unnethes 2 great beastes, 
Now riveres, now cityes, 
Now townes, and now great trees 
Now shippes sailing in the sea ; 
But thus soon in a while he 
Was flowen from the ground so high 
That all the world, as to mine eye, 
No more yseemed than a prick, 3 
Or elles was the air so thick 
That I ne might it not discern. 4 

The Flower and the Leaf. This has an instructive moral. A gentle- 
woman, out of an arbor in a grove, seeth a great company of knights and 
ladies in a dance upon the green grass, the which being ended they all kneel 
down, and do honor to the daisy, some to the Flower and some to the Leaf. 
Afterward this gentlewoman learneth by one of these ladies the meaning 
hereof, which is this : they who honor the Flower, a thing fading with every 
blast, are such as look after beauty and worldly pleasure; but they that honor 
the Leaf, which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the winter storms and 
frosts, are they which follow virtue and true merit, without regarding worldly 
respects. Such are the chief poems of Geoffrey Chaucer. 6 

Though Chaucer was and is known chiefly as a poet, yet in his prose he 
equally excels all his contemporaries, thus verifying what we believe will be 
found to be a universal truth, that every good poet is no less distinguished 
for a clear and vigorous prose style. Two of the Canterbury Tales, the Tale 
of Melibeus and the Parson's Tale, are in prose, but his longest unversified 
production is his Testament of Love, written to defend his character from the 
imputations cast on it by his enemies. From the Tale of Melibeus we extract 
the following excellent remarks 

UPON RICHES. 

In getting of your riches, and in using of 'em, ye shulen alway 
have three things in your heart, that is to say, our Lord God, con- 

1 Tho— then. 2 Unnethes— not easily, with difficulty. 3 Prick— point. 

4. I stood, methonght, betwixt earth, seas, and skies, 
The whole creation open to my eyes. 
In air self-balanced hung the globe below, 
Where mountains rise, and circling oceans flow; 
Here naked rocks and empty wastes are seen, 
There tow'ry cities, and the forests green; 
Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes; 
There trees, and intermingled temples rise. 

Temple of Fame, lines 11 — 18. 
6 Read— " Clarke's Tales from Chaucer," written in imitation of Lamb's "Tales from Shakspeare,* 
and Clarke's "Riches of Chancer." Also, a critique upon Chaucer in the Retrospective Review, ix. 
173; and another in the Edinburgh Review, hi. 437 ; also a parallel between Cnaucer and Spenser in 
the latter Review, xxiv. 58. 

c 



8-4 GOWER. [HENRY IV. 

science, and good name. First ye shulen have God in your heart, 
and for no riches ye shulen do nothing which may in any manner 
displease God that is your creator and maker ; for, after the word 
of Solomon, it is better to have a little good with love of God, than 
to have muckle good and lese the love of his Lord God ; and the 
prophet saith, that better it is to ben a good man and have little 
good and treasure, than to be hoiden a shrew and have great riches. 
And yet I say furthermore, that ye shulden always do your busi- 
ness to get your riches, so that ye get 'em with a good conscience. 
And the apostle saith, that there nis thing in this world, of which 
we shulden have so great joy, as when our conscience beareth us 
good witness ; and the wise man saith, The substance of a man is 
full good when sin is not in a man's conscience. Afterward, in 
getting of your riches and in using of 'em, ye must have great 
business and great diligence that your good name be alway kept and 
conserved ; for Solomon saith, that better it is and more it availeth 
a man to have a good name than for to have great riches ; and 
therefore he saith in another place, Do great diligence (saith he) 
in keeping of thy friends and of thy good name, for it shall longer 
abide with thee than any treasure, be it never so precious ; and 
certainly he should not be called a gentleman that, after God and 
good conscience all things left, ne doth his diligence and business 
to keepen his good name ; and Cassiodore saith, that it is a sign 
of a gentle heart, when a man loveth and desireth to have a good 
name. 



JOHN GOWER. Died 1408. 



John" Gower, one of the most ancient of the English poets, was contempo- 
rary with Chaucer, his intimate friend. Where, when, or of what family he 
was born, is uncertain. His education, says Warton, 1 appears to have been 
liberal, and his course of reading extensive, and he tempered his severer studies 
by mingling with the world. By a critical cultivation of his native language, he 
labored to reform its irregularities, and to establish an English style. In these 
respects he resembled Chaucer, but he has little of his spirit, imagination, or 
elegance. His language is tolerably perspicuous, and his versification often 
harmonious, but his poetry is of a grave and sententious turn. He has much 
good sense, solid reflection, and useful observation ; but he is serious and 
didactic on all occasions, preserving the tone of the scholar and the moralist 
on the most lively topics. Hence he is characterized by Chaucer as the 
•'Morall Gower." He died in 1408. 

The chief work of Gower is entitled " Confessio Amantis," or the Con- 
fession of a Lover. It consists of a long dialogue between a Lover and his 
Confessor, who is a priest of Venivs, and is called Genius. To make his pre- 

1 Read— his " History of English Poetry/ 4 vols., a work of vast learning, but not unfrequentiy 
tedious from its numerous digressions. 



1399-1413.] gower. 35 

cepts more impressive, he illustrates his injunctions by a series of apposite 
tales, with the moralitj of which the lover professes to be highly ediliecL 
One of which, entitled " Florent," has considerable merit, and is told in 
Gower's best manner. As it is too long to insert in the Compendium, we wili 
give the substance of it in prose, as near the author's language as we can, inter- 
spersing here and there a few lines of the original. 

There was, in days of old, as men tell, a worthy knight by the name of 
Florent; nephew to the emperor, and of great strength and courage. He was 
also ambitious of distinction in arms, and to gain the applause of men, he 
would go into any regions in search of adventures. It happened upon a time 
when he was abroad, that, going through a narrow pass, he was attacked by 
a number of men, and was taken and led to a castle. In the affray, however, 
he had killed Branchus, the son and heir of the captain of the castle. The 
father and mother were ready to take vengeance on him, but remembrance 
of his worthiness, and his high connections, made them pause. They feared 
to slay him, and were " in great disputes on what was best." 

There was a lady in the castle of very great age, and the shrewdest of all 
that men then knew. She, on being asked her advice, said, that she would 
devise a plan that would bring about the death of Florent, and all by his own 
agreement, and without blame to any one. The knight is summoned, and 
she thus addresses him : 

" Florent, though thou art guilty of Branchus's death, no punishment shall be 
visited upon thee, upon this condition — that thou shalt be able to answer a 
question which I shall ask ; and thou shalt take an oath that if thou prove 
unable to do this, thou shalt yield thyself up voluntarily to death. And that 
thou mayest have time to think of it, and to advise wiuh others, a day shall 
be fixed for thee to go hence in safety, provided that at the expiration of the 
time agreed upon, thou return with thine answer." The knight begs the lady 
to propose the question immediately, and agrees -to all her conditions. She 
then says, " Florent, my question is one which pertains to love, 

What alle women most desire." 

Florent then, having taken an oath to return on a fixed day, goes forth, and 
returns to his uncle's court again. He tells him all that had befallen him, 
and asks the opinion of all the wisest men of the land upon the question to 
which he is bound to give an answer at the peril of his life. But he finds 
no two that agree. What some like, others dislike ; but what to all is most 
pleasant, and most desired above all other — 

Such a thing they cannot find 
By constellation ne kind, 

that is neither by the stars, nor by the laws of kind or natuie. 

At length the day arrived when Florent must return. He begs his uncle 
not to be angry with him, for that is a " point of his oath," and he also en- 
treats him not to let any one revenge his death when he shall hear of his 
lamentable end. 

So he sets out on his return — pondering what to do — what answer to give 
to the question proposed. At length he came to a large tree, under which saf 
an old woman most ugly to view — 

That for to speak of flesh and bone 
So foul yet aw he never none. 



36 GOWER. [HENRY IV. 

Our hero was riding by briskly, when she called to him by name, and said, 
" Florent, you are riding to your death, but I can save you by my counsel." 
He turned at once, and begged her to advise him what he should do. Said 
she, " What wilt thou give me, if I will point out a course by means of which 
you shall escape death ?" " Any thing you may ask," said he. " I want 
nothing more than this promise," said she, " therefore give me your pledge 

That you will be my housebande." 

" Nay," said Florent — " that may not be." 

" Ride thenne forth thy way," quod she. 

Florent was now in great perplexity : he rode to and fro, and knew not what 
to do. He promised lands, parks, houses, but all to no purpose, the housebande 
was the only thing that would do. He came, however, to the conclusion that 
A was 

Better to take her to his wife, 

Or elles for to lose his life. 

He also calculated with some skill the doctrine of chances, and came to the 
conclusion that she would probably not live very long ; and that while she 
did live he would put her 

Where that no man her shoulde know 
Till she with death were overthrow. 

He therefore agreed, most reluctantly, to the terms proposed. She then tells 
him that when he reaches the castle, and they demand of him his answer to 
the question proposed, he shall reply 

That alle women lievest would 
Be sovereign of mannes love ; 

for what woman, says she, is so favored as to have all her will: and if she be 
not "sovereign of mannes love," she cannot have what she " lievest have," that 
is what she may most desire. With this answer, she says he shall save him- 
self; and then she bids him to return to this same place, where he shall rind 
her waiting for him. Florent rode sadly on, and came to the castle. A large 
number of the inmates is summoned to hear his answer. He named several 
things of his own excogitations, but all would not do. Finally, he gives the 
answer the old woman directed: it is declared to be the true one, and he 
rides forth from the castle. 

. Here began poor Florent's deepest sorrow, for he must return according to 
his oath. He rides back, and finds the old woman sitting in the same place, 

The loathliest wight 
That ever man cast on his eye, 
Her nose bas, 1 her browes high, 
Her eyen small, and depe-set, 
Her chekes ben with teres wet, 
And rivelin 2 as an empty skin, 
Hangende 3 down unto her chin, 
Her lippes shrunken ben for age; 
There was no grace in her visage. 

She insists, however, that he shall comply with the terms of agreement, and 
therefore, sick at heart, and almost preferring death, 



1 Low hat. 2 Shrivelled. 8 Hanging. 



1399-1413.] gower. 37 

In ragges as she was to-tore 
He set her on his horse to-fore, 

and riding through all the lanes and by-ways, that no one migh. see him, lie 
arrive?, by design, at the castle by night. He then calls one or two of his 
trusty friends, and tells them that he was obliged 

This beste wedde to his wife, 
For elles he had lost his life. 

The maids of honor were then sent in; 

Her ragges they anon off draw, 
And, as it was that time law, 
She hadde bath, she hadde rest, 
And was arrayed to the best, 

all except her matted and unsightly hair, which she would not allow them to 
touch. 

But when she was fully array'd 

And her attire was all assay*d, 

Then was she fouler unto see. 

But poor Florent must take her for better for worse, though the worse seemed 
then rather to predominate. The company are all assembled, and the bride 
and bridegroom stand up to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The 
ceremony being over, die ill-fated knight covered up his head in grief. 

His body mighte well be there ; 
But as of thought and of memoire 
His hearte was in Purgatoire. 

She endeavored to ingratiate herself in his affections, and approached and 
took him softly by the hand. He turned suddenly, and saw one of the most 
beautiful beings that ever his eyes beheld. He was about to draw her unto 
himself — when she stopped him, 

And sayth, that for to win or lose 
He mote one of two thinges choose, 
Wher 1 he will have her such o' night 
Or elles upon daye's light; 
For he shall not have bothe two. 

Here Florent was utterly at a loss what to say. At last he exclaims, 

I n'ot what answer I shall give, 
But ever, while that I may live, 
I will that ye be my mistress, 
For I can naught myselve guess 
Which is die best unto my choice. 
Thus grant I you mine whole voice. 
Choose for us bothen, I you pray, 
And, what as ever that ye say, 
Right as ye wille, so will I. 

This is die point — he yields up his will entirely to hers. This is what 4l 1II6 



1 "Whether. 
4 



38 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. [HENKY VI. 

women most desire," to be sovereign of man's love : — in short — to have their 
own way. The bride then thus answers the happy groom : 

"My lord," she saide, " grand-merci 1 
For of this word that ye now sayn 
That ye have made me sovereign, 
My destiny is overpass"d ; 
That ne'er hereafter shall be lass'd 2 
My beauty, which drat I now have, 
Till I betake unto my grave. 
Both night and day, as I am now, 
I shall alway be such to you. 
Thus, I am yours for evermo." 



JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 1395—1437. 

To an incident which happened in the reign of Henry IV. of England^ 
we are indebted for the most elegant poem that was produced during the 
early part of the fifteenth century — " The King's Quail',' 1 3 by James I. oi 
Scotland. 

This prince was the second son of Robert III., and was born in 1395. Hit 
elder brother died, and the king determined to send his surviving son, James, 
to be educated at the court of his ally, Charles VI., of France ; and he em- 
barked for that country with a numerous train of attendants in 1405. Bat the 
ship was stopped by an English squadron, and the passengers were, by order 
of Henry IV., sent to London. It was, of course, an outrageous violation of 
all right, for Henry to make James a prisoner; but the accident that placed 
him in his power was ultimately advantageous to the prince as well as to 
the nation he was born to govern. He was at that time only ten years of 
age, but Henry, though he kept him closely confined, took great pains to 
have him educated in the most thorough manner, and so rapid was the pro- 
gress that he made in his studies that he soon became a prodigy of erudition, 
and excelled in every branch of polite accomplishments. 

During fifteen years of his captivity, he seemed forgotten or at least neg- 
lected by his subjects. The admiration of strangers and the consciousness 
of his own talents only rendered his situation more irksome, and he had 
begun to abandon himself to despair, when he was fortunately consoled for 
his seclusion at Windsor Castle by a passion of which sovereigns in quief 
possession of a throne have seldom the good fortune to feel the influence 
The object of his admiration was the lady Jane Beaufort, (daughter of John 
Beaufort, duke of Somerset,) whom he afterwards married, and in whose 
commendation he composed his principal poetical work, " The King's Quair." 
In 1423 he was released, and, taking possession of the throne of his ancestors, 
he did very much to improve the civilization of his country, by repressing 
many disorders, and enacting many salutary laws. But his stringent measures 

1 Many thanks. 2 Lessened. 

8 " Quair," quire, pamphlet, or oook ; hence the " King's Quair" means the King's Book. See 
Ellis's "Specimens," i. 299, Warton's "History of English Poetry," ii. 437, and Park's edition of 
Walyole's "Royal and Noble Authors.' 



1422-1461.] JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 39 

of reform were very offensive to a lawless nobility; a conspiracy was formed 
against him, and he was murdered at Perth, in 1437. 

The chief poem of James I., as mentioned above, consists of one hundred 
and ninety-seven stanzas. It contains various particulars of his own life ; is 
full of simplicity and feeling, and, as has been correctly said, is superior to 
any poetry besides that of Chaucer produced in England before the reign of 
Elizabeth, — as will be testified by the following stanzas. 



ON HIS BELOVED. 

The longe dayes and the nightis eke 

I would bewail my fortune in this wise ; 

For which again 1 distress comfort to seek, 
My custom was on mornis for to rise 
Early as day : happy exercise ! 

By thee come I to joy out of torment ; — 

But now to purpose of my first intent 

Bewailing in my chamber thus alone, 
Despaired of all joy and remedy, 

For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, 
And to the window gan I walk in hye, 2 
To see the world and folk that went forby ; 

As, for the time, (though I of mirthis food 

Might have no more,) to look it did me good. 

Now was there made, fast by the Touris wall, 
A garden fair ; 3 and in the corners set 

An herbere, 4 green ; with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with treeis set 
"Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet 

That life 5 was none [a] walking there forby, 

That might within scarce any wight espy. 

And on the smalle grene twistis sat 

The little sweete nightingale, and sung 

So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
That all the gardens and the wallis rung 

Right of their song ; and on the couple next 6 

Of their sweet harmony: and lo the text! 



" Worshippe ye that lovers bene this May, 

For of your bliss the calends are begun; 

And sing with us, ' Away ! winter away ! 



1 gainst. 2 Haste. 

* he gardens of this period seem to have been very small. In Chaucer's Troilus and Ciesseide" 
we ad t' e same place indifferently called a garden and a yard ; and this, at >nndsor, fait by theTouna 
voot, wai probably either in the yard or on the terrace. 

4 frol .bly an arbour, though the word is also very frequently used for an Jierbary, or garden of 
Mmpler 5 Living person. 

e Mi ytler imagines that this relates to the pairing of the birds; but the word cvupU seems here 
to be i ;d as a musical term. 



40 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. [HENRY VI. 

Come, summer, come ! the sweet season and sun ! 

Awake, for shame ! that have your heavens won ! 1 
And amorously lift up your headis all ; 
Thank Love, that list you to his mercy call !' " 

When they this song had sung a little throw, 2 
They stent 3 awhile, and, therewith unafraid 

As I beheld, and cast mine eyen a-lowe, 

From bough to bough they hipped 4 and they play'd, 
And freshly, in their birdis kind, array'd 

Their feathers new, and fret 5 them in the sun, 

And thanked Love that had their maids 6 won. 



And therewith cast I down mine eye again, 
Whereas I saw, walking under the Tower 

Full secretly, new comyn her to pleyne, 7 
The fairest, or the freshest younge flower 
That ever I saw, methought, before that hour ; 

For which sudden abate anon astert? 

The blood of all ray body to my heart. 

And though I stood abased tho a lyte, 9 

No wonder was ; for why ? my wittis all 
Were so o'ercome with pleasance and delight 

Only through letting of mine eyen fall, 

That suddenly my heart become her thrall 
For ever; of free will; for of menace 
There was no token in her sweete face. 

And in my head I drew right hastily ; 

And eft-soones I lent it forth again : 
And saw her walk that very womanly, 

With no wight mo 10 but only women twain. 

Then gan I study in myself, and sayn 
" Ah sweet, are ye a worldly creature, 
Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature 1 

" Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, 

And comen are to loose me out of band 1 
Or are ye very Nature the goddess, 

That have depainted with your heaveniy hand 

This garden full of flouris as they stand ? 
What shall I think, alas ! what reverence 
Shall I mester 11 [un] to your excellence 1 

" GifT 12 ye a goddess be, and that ye like 

To do me pain, I may it not astert: 
Gift" ye be worldly wight, that doth me sike, 13 

•J Mr. Tytler explains thi3 as follows : "Ye that have attained your highest bliss, by winning; your 
mai.es."— See the last line of the next stanza. 2 a little time. 3 stopped 

* Hopped. 5 Pecked. 6 Mates. 

* This seems to mean complain; but should it not rather be playen, to play or sport? 

8 Started back. 9 Then a little. 10 More. 11 Administer I 12 If. 13 Make me sigh. 



1422-1461.] JAMES I. OP SCOTLAND. 41 

Why lest 1 God make you so, my dearest heart, 

To do a silly prisoner thus smart, 
That loves you all, and wote of nought but wo 1 
And, therefore, mercy sweet! sen it is so." 

******* 
Of her array the form gif I shall write, 

Toward her golden hair and rich attire, 
In fret- wise couch'd 2 with pear lis white, 

And greate balas 3 lemyng 4 as the fire, 

With many an emerant and fair sapphire, 
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue 
Of plumys, parted red, and white, and blue. 

Full of quaking spangis 5 bright as gold, 
Forged of shape like to the amorettis ; 6 

So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold ; 
The plumis eke like to the floure-jonettis, 7 
And other of shape like to the floure-jonettis ; 8 

And above all this there was, well I wote, 

Beauty enough to make a world to dote ! 

About her neck, white as the fyre amaille, 9 

A goodly chain of small orfeverye ; 10 
Whereby there hung a ruby without fail, 

Like to an heart [y-] shapen verily, 

That as a spark of lowe, 11 so wantonly 
Seemed burning upon her white throat ; 
Now gif there was good party, God it wote. 

And for to walk, that freshe Maye's morrow, 
And hook she had upon her tissue white, 

That goodlier had not been seen to-forrow, 12 
As I suppose ; and girt she was a lyte ; 13 
Thus halfling 14 loose for haste, to such delight 

It was to see her youth in goodlihead, 

That, for rudeness, to speak thereof I dread. 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble aport, 

Bounty, richess, and womanly feature ; 
God better wote than my pen can report : 

Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sure, 

In every point so guided her measure, 
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That Nature might no more her child avance. 



1 PifcAsed : that is, "If thou art a goddess, I cannot resist thy power; but if only a mortal ciea- 
wire, (*od surely cannot lest or incline you to grieve or give pain to a poor creature that loves 
W >u."—Tytler. 2 Inlaid like fret-work. 3 a sort of precious stone. 4 Shming. 

5 Spangles. 6 " Made in the form of a love-knot or garland." — Tytler. 

7 A kind of lily. It is conjectured that the royal poet may here allude covertly to the name of his 
mistress, which, in the diminutive, was Janet or Jonet.— Thornton's Edition of King's Quhair. Ayr, 1824. 

8 The repetition of this word is apparently a mistake of the original transcriber. 

9 Gu. Is this an error for fair email, i. e. enamel ? 10 Gold-work. U Fire, flame. 
12 Before. 13 A little. 14 Halt 

4* 



42 CAXTON. [henry vu. 

And when she walked had a little thraw 

Under the sweete greene boughis bent, 
Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw, 

She turned has, and furth her wayis went; 

But tho began mine aches and torment, 
To see her part and follow I na might; 
Methought the day was turned into night. 1 



WILLIAM CAXTON. 1413—1491. 

O Albion ! still thy gratitude confess 
To Caxton, founder of the British Press : 
Since first thy mountains rose, or rivers fiow'd, 
Who on thy isles so rich a boon bestow'd ? 

M'Creery. 

Lord ! taught by thee, when Caxton bade 

His silent words for ever speak : 
A grave for tyrants then was made — 

Then crack'd the chain which yet shall break. 

Elliot. 

The name of William Caxton will ever be held in grateful remembrance 
by the world of letters, for he it was who introduced the art of printing into 
England. He was born in the county of Kent in the year 1413, and at the 
age of fifteen was put as an apprentice to a merchant of London. In con- 
sideration of his integrity and good behavior, bis master bequeathed him a 
small sum of money as a capital with which to trade. He was soon chosen 
by the Mercer's Company to be their agent in Holland and Flanders, in which 
countries he spent about twenty-three years. While there, the new invention 
of the art of printing 2 was everywhere spoken of; and Caxton, at a great 

1 " It would, perhaps, be difficult to select even from Chaucer's most finished works a long specimen 
of descriptive poetry so uniformly elegant as this : indeed some of the verses are so highly finished, 
that they would not disfigure the compositions of Dryden, Pope, or Gray." — Ellis. 

2 It is not a little singular that the history of printing, that art which commemorates all other in- 
ventions, and which hands down to posterity every important event, is so enveloped in mystery that 
the ablest minds in Europe have had long and acrimonious disputations respecting the question to 
what place and to what person the invention is rightfully due. There is not space here to give even 
an outline of these controversies ; I can merely give the result. The two cities which claim the. . 
discovery are Haarlem or Haerlem, a city of North Holland, and Mentz, in Germany on the Rhine. 
The dispute, however, as Mr. Timperley properly observes, has turned rather on words than facts, 
arising from the different definitions of the word printing-. If the honor is to be awarded from the 
discovery of the principle, it is unquestionably due to Lawrence Coster, of Haarlem, who first found 
out the method of impressing characters on paper, by means of blocks of carved wood, about 1430. 
If movable types be considered the criterion, as it seems to me they must, the merit of the invention 
is due to John Guttenburg, of Mentz, who used them about 1440: while Schoeffer, in conjunction 
with Faust, was the first who founded types of metal. 

From all the arguments and opinions, therefore, which have been adduced in this important con- 
troversy, the following conclusion may be satisfactorily drawn. To JOHN GUTTENBURG, of 
Mentz. is due the appellation of Father of Printing; to PETER SCHOEFFER that of father o* 
letter-founding; and to JOHN FAUST that of energetic Patron, by whose pecuniary aid tktf 
wonderful discovery was brought rapidly to perfection 



1485-1509.] caxton. 43 

expense of time and labor, and with an industry to which all obstacles will 
ever give way, made himself complete master of it, as then known. He first 
employed himself in translating from French into English, The Recuyell l of the 
Histories of Troye, which was published at Cologne, 1471, and is the first book 
ever printed in the English language. The next year Caxton returned to 
England, and in 1474 put forth The Game of Chess, remarkable as being the 
first book ever printed in England. It was entitled, The Game and Playe of 
the Chesse: Translated out of the French, and imprynted by William Caxton. 
Fynyshed the last day of Marche, the yer of our Lord God, a thousand foure hun- 
dred, Ixxiiij. 

Caxton was a man who united great modesty and simplicity of character 
to indefatigable industry. He styled himself " simple William Caxton." He 
printed, in all, about sixty-four different works, a great number of which he 
translated as well as printed ; and those which he did not translate, he often 
revised and altered ; so that, in point of language, they may be considered as 
his own. He continued to prepare works for the press to the very close of 
his life ; and though of no brilliancy of talent, he exemplifies, in a remarkable 
degree, how much good one man may do, of even moderate powers, provided 
he industriously and faithfully employs all that has been given to him with an 
eye single to one great object. 2 

Among other works 3 printed by Caxton were the Chronicles of England, 
which contained indeed some true history, but much more of romantic fable. 
As a specimen of the latter, the following may be given upon the 

ORIGIN OF THE NAME OF ALBION. 

Before that I will speak of Brute, 4 it shall be shewed how the 
land of England was first named Albion, and by what encheson 5 
it was so named. 

Of the noble land of Syria, there was a royal king and mighty, 
and a man of great renown, that was called Dioclesian, that well 
and worthily him governed and ruled thro' his noble chivalry ; so 
that he conquered all the lands about him; so that almost all the 
kings of the world to him were attendant. It befel thus that this 
Dioclesian spoused a gentle damsel that was wonder fair, that was 
his uncle's daughter, Labana. And she loved him as reason 
would ; so that he had by her thirty-three daughters ; of the 
which the eldest was called Albine. And these damsels, when 
they came unto age, became so fair that it was wonder. Whereof 
Dioclesian anon let make a summoning, and commanded by his 
letters, that all the kings that held of him, should come at a cer- 
tain day, as in his letters were contained, to make a feast royal. 
At which day, thither they came, and brought with them admi- 
rals, princes, and dukes, and noble chivalry. The feast was roy- 
ally arrayed ; and there they lived in joy and mirth enough, that 



1 Compilation— selection. 2 Read— "Life of Caxton," published by the Society for the Dif- 

fusion of Useful Knowledge. 3 For a full list of his works, see Ames's "Typographical Antiqui- 

ties," or " Timperley's History of Printing," page 155. 4 This Brute was the grandson of aSiieas 

and the old chronicles derived the descent of the Britons from the Trojans. 6 Chance 



44 DUNBAR. [HENRY VIII. 

it was wonder to wyte. 1 And it befel thus, that Dioclesian thought 
to marry his daughters among ail those kings that were of that 
solemnity. And so they spake and did, that Albine, his eldest 
daughter, and all her sisters, richly were married unto thirty-three 
kings, that were lords of great honour and of power, at this solem- 
nity. And when the solemnity was done, every king took his 
wife, and led them into their own country, and there made them 
queens. 

The story then goes on to relate how these thirty-three wives conspired to 
kill their husbands, all on the same night, and " anon, as their lords were 
asleep, they cut all their husbands' throats ; and so they slew them all." 

When that Dioclesian, their father, heard of this thing, he be- 
came furiously wroth against his daughters, and anon would 
them all have brente. 3 But all the barons and lords of Syria 
counseled not so for to do such straitness 3 to his own daughters ; 
but only should void the land of them for evermore ; so that they 
never should come again ; and so he did. 

And Dioclesian, that was their father, anon commanded them 
to go into a ship, and delivered to them victuals for half a year. 
And when this was done, all the sisters went into the ship, and 
sailed forth in the sea, and took all their friends to Apolin, that 
was their God. And so long they sailed in the sea, till at the last 
they came and arrived in an isle, that was all wilderness. And 
when dame Albine was come to that land, and all her sisters, this 
Albine went first forth out of the ship, and said to her other sis- 
ters : For as much, (said she,) as I am the eldest sister of all this 
company, and first this land hath taken ; and for as much as my 
name is Albine, I will that this land be called Albion, after mine 
own name. And anon, all her sisters granted to her with a good 
will. 



WILLIAM DUNBAR. 1465—1530. 



William Dun-bar is pronounced by Ellis, 4 to be "the greatest poet Scot- 
land has produced." His writings, however, with scarcely an exception, 
remained in the obscurity of manuscript, till the beginning of the last century; 
but his fame since then has been continually rising. His chief poems are 
The Thistle and The Rose, The Dance, and The Golden Terge. The 
Thistle and the Rose was occasioned by the marriage of James IV. of Scot- 
land with Margaret Tudor, the eldest daughter of Henry VII. of England, 
an event in which the whole future political state of both nations was vitally 
interested, and which ultimately produced the union of the two crowns and 

'•Know. 2 Burnt. 3 strictness. 4 'Specimens of the Early English Poets," 

vol. i. \>. S77 : but should he not have excepted Burns and Sir Walter Scott ? 



1509-1547.] DUNBAR. 45 

kingdoms, in the person of James VI. of Scotland, and I. of England, 1603— 
1625. Tins poem opens with the following stanzas, remarkable for their do- 
scriptive and picturesque beauties : 

Quhen 1 Merche wes with variand windis past, 
And Appryll had with hir silver shouris 
Tane leif 2 at Nature, with ane orient blast, 
And lusty May, that muddir 3 is of flouris, 
Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris, 
Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt 
Quhois 4 harmony to heir it wes delyt: 

In bed at morrow sleiping as I lay, 
Methocht Aurora, with her crista 11 ene 
In at the window lukit 5 by the day, 
And halsit 6 me with visage pale and grene ; 
On quhois hand a lark sang, fro the splene, 7 
" Awak, luvaris,8 out of your slemering, 9 
Se how the lusty morrow dois up spring !" 

Methocht fresche May befoir my bed upstude, 
In weid J0 depaynt of mony diverse hew, 
Sober, benyng, and full of mansuetude, 
In bright atteir of flouris forgit 11 new, 
Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, brown, and blew, 
Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus' bemys ; 
Quhil al the house illumynit of her lemys. 12 

The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell has much merit. On the 
eve of Lent, a day of general confession, the poet, in a dream, sees a display of 
heaven and hell. Mahomet, 13 or the devil, commands a dance to be performed 
by a select party of fiends, and immediately the Seven Deadly Sins appear. 
The following is a description of Eisrvr: — 

Next in the dance folio wit Lxyx, 
Fild full of feid 1 * and fellony, 

Hid malyce and dispyte ; 
For pryvie haterit 15 that tratour trymlit, 16 
Him folio wit mony freik dissymlit, 1 ? 

With feynit wordis quhyte. 
And flattereis into mens facis, 
And back-byttaris 18 of sundry racis, 

To ley 19 that had delyte. 
With rownaris 20 of fals lesingis : 21 
Allace ! that courtis of noble kingis 

Of tham can nevir be quyte!" 22 

As a specimen of one of his minor poems take the following, containing 
uuch wholesome advice: — 

1 When. Qn has the force of w. 2 Taken leave. 3 Mother. 4 Whose. 6 Looked. 6 Hailed. 
7 With good will. 8 Lovers. 9 Slumbering. 10 Attire. 11 Forged, made. 12 Brightness. 

13 The Christians, in the crusades, were accustomed to hear the Saracens swear by their Prophet 
Mahomet, who then became, in Europe, another name for the Devil. 

14 Enmity. 15 Hatred. 16 Trembled. 17 Dissembling gallant. 13 Backbiters. 19 Lie. 
20 Bounders, whispers. To round in the ear, or simply to round, was to whisper in the ear. 

a Falsities. 22 Free. 



46 DUNBAR. [HENRY VHI, 



NO TREASURE WITHOUT GLADNESS. 



Be merry, man ! and take not sair in mind 

The wavering of this wretchit world of sorrow ! 
To God be humble, and to thy friend be kind, 

And with thy neighbours gladly lend and borrow . 
His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow. 

Be blithe in heart for any a venture ; 
For oft with wysure 1 it has been said aforrow, 2 

Without gladness availis no treasure. 



Make thee good cheer of it that God thee sends, 

For worldis wrak 3 but welfare, nought avails : 
Na good is thine, save only but thou spends ; 

Remenant all thou brookis but with bales. 4 
Seek to solace when sadness thee assails : 

In dolour lang thy life may not endure ; 
Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails : 

Without gladness availis no treasure. 



Follow on pity ; 5 flee trouble and debate ; 

With famous folkis hold thy company ; 
Be charitable, and humble in thine estate, 

For worldly honour lastis but a cry ; 6 
For trouble in earth take no melancholy ; 

Be rich in patience, gif thou in goods be poor ; 
Who livis merry, he livis mightily: 

Without gladness availis no treasure. 



Though all the werk 7 that ever had livand wight 

Were only thine, no more thy part does fall 
But meat, drink, clais, 8 and of the laif 9 a sight ! 

Yet, to the Judge thou shall give "compt of all. 
Ane reckoning right comes of ane ragment 10 small, 

Be just, and joyous, and do to none injure, 
And truth shael make thee strong as any wall: 

Without gladness availis no treasure. 

1 Wisdom. 2 A-fore, before. 3 Merchandise, treasure; that is, world's trash without 

health Here we see the original, etymological meaning of the preposition but to be without. 

* Tnou canst enjoy all the remainder only with bale, or sorrow. 6 Originally pity and piety are the 
same. 6 No longer than a sound. 7 Possessions. 8 Clothes. 6 Remainder. S> One acco mpt. 



1509-1547.] more. il 



SIR THOMAS MORE. 1480—1535. 



More, 



Who, with a generous though mistaken zeal, 

Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage, 

Like Cato firm, like Aristides just, 

Like rigid Cincinnatus noblj poor— 

A dauntless soul erect, who smiled on death. 

Thomsoit. 

Sih Thomas Mohe was, without doubt, the most prominent character oi 
the reign of Henry VIII. He was born in London in the year 1480. When 
a boy he was in the family of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who used to say 
of him to his guests, " This boy who waits at my table, who lives to see it, 
will prove a marvellous man." He entered the University of Oxford at the 
age of seventeen, and at the age of twenty-two was elected member of Par- 
liament. In 1516 he was sent to Flanders on an important mission, and nn 
his return, the king conferred on him the honor of knighthood, and appointed 
him one of his privy council. In 1529, on the disgrace of Cardinal Wolsey, 
he was appointed Lord Chancellor, being the first layman who ever held the 
office. But he was soon to experience in himself the language which Shak- 
speare puts into the mouth of Wolsey to Cromwell, — 

"How wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors." 

Henry Vni. doubtless raised More to this high office, that he might aid 
him to obtain a divorce from his wife, and to marry Anne Boleyn. But More 
was sincerely attached to the Roman church, and looked with horror upon 
any thing that was denounced by the supreme head of the church, as the 
king's divorce was by the pope. He therefore begged that monster of wick- 
edness, Henry VIII., to excuse him from giving an opinion. But the tyrant 
was relentless, and the result was, that when the Act of Supremacy was 
passed by Parliament, 1534, declaring Henry to be the supreme head of the 
church, More refused to take the oath required of him, and he died on a 
scaffold, a martyr to his adhesion to the papal church, and the supremacy of 
the pope, on the 5th of July, 1535. "Nothing is wanting," (says Mr. Hume,) 
" to the glory of this end but a better cause. But as the man followed his 
principles and sense of duty, however misguided, his constancy and integrity 
are not the less objects of our admiration. " 

More was a man of true genius, and of a mind enriched with all the learn- 
ing of his time, and no one had a greater influence over his contemporaries. 
He held continued correspondence with the learned men of Europe. The 
great Erasmus went to England on purpose to enjoy the pleasure of his con 
versation. It is said that their first meeting was at the lord mayor's table, at 
that time always open to men of learning and eminence, but they were un- 
known to each other. At dinner, a dispute arising on some theological points, 
Erasmus expressed himself with great severity of the clergy, and ridiculed, 
with considerable acrimony, the doctrine of transubstantiation. More re- 
joined with all his strength of argument and keenness of wit. Erasmus, thus 
assailed, exclaimed with some vehemence, " Aut tu Morns es, aut nullus ;"' to 
which More with great readiness replied, " Aut tu es Erasmus, aut Diabolus." % 

1 " You are cither More or no one." 2 " Either you are Erasmus or the Devil." 



43 MOEE. [HENRY VIII. 

In this contest Sir Thomas's wit, if not his arguments, rather prevailed ; but 
not long after, Erasmus had a far greater advantage. More had lent Eras- 
mus a horse, which he took over with him to Holland. Instead of returning 
it to the owner, he sent him the following epigram, intended as an answer to 
the former arguments of Sir Thomas on the subject of transubstantiation : — 

Quod mihi dixisti 
De corpore Christi, 

Crede qu6d edas, et edis : 
Sic tibi rescribo 
De tuo palfrido, 

Crede qu6d habeas, et habes.l 

More was of a very cheerful or rather mirthful disposition, which forsook 
aim not to the last, and he jested even when about to lay his head upon the 
trlock. The following couplet, which is attributed to him, indicates the state 
of mind, which may have partially enabled him to meet his fate with a forti- 
tude so admirable : 

If evils come not, then our fears are vain ; 
And if they do, fear but augments the pain. 

Truth, however, compels me to add that his character presents many incon- 
sistencies; for though he was a witty companion, he was a stern fanatic; 
though playful and affectionate in his own household, he lorded it with an 
iron rod over God's heritage ; though an enlightened statesman, ably arguing 
in his study against sanguinary laws, from his chair of office he spared no 
pains to carry the most sanguinary into execution ; and though ranked as a 
philosopher, he, every Friday, scourged his own body with whips of knotted 
cords, and by way of further penance, wore a hair shirt next to his lacerated 
skin. 

The most celebrated work of Sir Thomas More was his Utopia. 2 The 
title of it is as follows : " " A most pleasant, fruitful, and witty Work of the 
best State of the public Weal, and of the new Isle called Utopia." It is a 
philosophical romance, in which More, after the manner of Plato, erects an 
imaginary republic, arranges society in a form entirely new, and endows it 
with institutions more likely, as he thought, to secure its happiness, than any 
which mankind had hitherto experienced. But while there is much in it 
that is fanciful and truly Utopian, there is also much that is truly excellent 
and worthy to be adopted. Thus, instead of severe punishment for theft, the 
author would improve the morals and condition of the people, so as to take 
away the temptation to crime ; for, says he, " if you suffer your people to be 
ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then 
punish them for those crimes to which their first education exposed them, 

1 For want of a better, I give the following version : 

Of Christ's body you said 
Believe that 'tis bread, 

And bread it surely will be; 
Thus to you I write back — 
Believe that your hack 

Is witli you, and with you is he. 

2 More properly written Eutopia, from the Greek eu ($v) "well, happily," and topns (roToj) "a 
place:" that is, "a land of perfect happiness." The Utopia was written in Latin, and not translated 
fUl a subsequent age, by Bishop Burnet. 



1509-1547.] more. 49 

what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and 
then punish them ?" 

Description of the Island Utopia. It is somewhere in the midst of 
the sea, of a crescent shape, like the new moon, but more curved, the two 
extremities coming nearer together. Hence the concave part forms an ad- 
mirable harbor for ships, but the entrance is so full of rocks, that no one but 
a Utopian could steer a vessel safely into the harbor. 1 They are therefore 
secure from the attacks of an enemy. There are fifty-four cities in the island, 
about the same distance apart. They are surrounded by high walls; the 
streets twenty feet wide. All the houses have large gardens in the rear. 
« Whoso will may go in," for there is nothing within the houses that is pri- 
vate, or any man's own. And every tenth year they change houses by lot. 

Their Trades and Manner of Life. Agriculture is that which is so 
universally understood among them all, that no person either man or woman 
is ignorant of it. The husbandmen labor the ground, breed cattle, hew wood, 
and convey it to the towns. They also raise a great deal of poultry, and that 
"by a marvellous policy: for the hens do not sit upon the eggs; but by keep- 
ing them in a certain equal heat, they bring life into them and hatch them : 
and the chickens, as soon as they come out of the shell, follow men and 
women instead of hens." Besides agriculture, every man has some peculiar 
trade to which he applies himself. All the island over they wear the same 
sort of clothes, without any other distinction than that which is necessary for 
marking the difference between the two sexes, and the married and un- 
married. The fashion never alters, and every family makes their own clothes. 
In travelling, though " they carry nothing forth with them, yet in all their 
journey they lack nothing : for wheresoever they come they be at home." There 
are no " wine taverns nor ale-houses" there, so that the disgraceful business 
of manufacturing or selling intoxicating drinks is not known. Happy island! 
Their Notions of Finery and Wealth. " The Utopians wonder how 
any man should be so much taken with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel 
or stone, that can look up to a star, or to the sun itself: or how any should 
value himself because his cloth is made of finer thread ; for, how fine soever 
that thread may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that 
sheep was a sheep still for all its wearing it. They wonder much to hear 
that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much 
esteemed, that even man, for whom it was made, and by whom it has its 
value, should yet be thought of less value than it is ; so that a man of lead, 
who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, 
should have many wise and good men serving him, only because he had a 
great heap of that metal." 

Their Notions of Hunting. « Among foolish pursuers of pleasure they 
reckon all those that delight in hunting, or birding, or gaming ; of whose mad- 
ness they have only heard, for they have no such things among them. What 
pleasure, they ask, can one find in seeing dogs run after a hare 1 It ought 
rather to stir pity, when a weak, harmless, and timid hare is devoured by a 
strong, fierce, and cruel dog. Therefore, all this business of hunting is, among 
the Utopians, turned over to their butchers ; and they look on hunting as one 
of the basest parts of a butcher's work." 

1 So graphic is Sir Thomas's description of Utopia, that many of une learned o chat day took ft 
for true history, and thought it expedient that missionaries should be sent out to c~nvert so wise a 
people to Christianity. 



50 MORE. [HENRY VIII. 

Of Laws and Lawyers. " They have but few laws, and such is their 
constitution that they need not many. They do very much condemn other 
nations whose laws, together with the comments on them, swell up so many 
volumes , for they think it an unreasonable thing to oblige men to obey a body 
of laws that are both of such a bulk and so dark that they cannot be read or 
understood by every one of the subjects. 1 They have no lawyers among 
them, for they consider them as a sort of people whose profession it is to dis- 
guise matters as well as to wrest laws ; and, therefore, they think it is much 
better that every man should plead his own cause, and trust it to the judge." 

Of their Notions of War. « They detest war as a very brutal thing ; 
and which, to the reproach of human nature, is more practiced by men than 
any sort of beasts : and they, against the custom of almost all other nations, 
think that there is nothing more inglorious than that glory which is gained by 
war. 2 They would be both troubled and ashamed of a bloody victory over 
their enemies ; and in no victory do they glory so much, as in that which i& 
gained by dexterity and good conduct, without bloodshed." 3 

Such are a few of the many admirable reflections to be found in the Utopia. 
No one can read it attentively without profit, and without acknowledging it 
to be full of those profound observations and shrewd insights into human 
nature, which show the author to be a man of singular wisdom, and far in 
advance of the spirit and practices of his own age.4 

Besides the Utopia, Sir Thomas wrote a great number of theological trea- 
tises, the main design of which was to oppose the Reformation. He also 
wrote a " History of Edward V. and his Brother, and of Richard III." Of 
this, Hume speaks in the highest terms : " No historian," (he says,) " either 
of ancient or modem times, can possibly have more weight. He may justly 
be esteemed a contemporary with regard to the murder of the two princes ; 
and it is plain from his narrative that he had the particulars from the eye- 
witnesses themselves." That wretch, Richard III., resolved, as the first step 
to his usurpation, to get both the young princes into his hand. Accordingly 
he despatched Cardinal Bourchier, with other ecclesiastics, to the queen, to 
prevail upon her to give them up. After a long dialogue, the cardinal, per- 
ceiving the little progress he had made with her, finally assured her that if 
she would consent to deliver the Duke of York to him, he " durst lay his own 
body and soul both pledge, not only for his surety, but also for his estate." 
The queen, seeing longer resistance to be fruitless, taking the young duke by 
the hand, thus addressed the cardinal and other lords : 

My lord, (quod she,) and all my lords, I neither am so unwise 
to mistrust your wits, nor so suspicious to mistrust your truths 
Of which thing I purpose to make you such a proof, as if either 

1 " This is a home thrust. Our laws are so numerous, that, together with their commentaries, they 
would have furnished sufficient solid reading for Adam, had he lived until now ; and the best of it is, 
that he would probably have been as wise when he concluded as when he began." — J. A. St. John. 

2 " As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on 
their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters."— 
Gibbon. 

3 Another home thrust; for modern generals, so they obtain the victory, care not a straw for the 
expense of human life by which it is purchased. 

4 Read— the " Preliminary Discourse" to an excellent edition of the Utopia, by J. A. St. John, Esq. 
London, 1845: also, an admirably written life of More in Lord Campbell's " Lives of the Chancellors, "- 
'.'Tie of the moat interesting and instructive biographical works in the language. 



1509-1547.] more. 51 

of both Jacked in you, might turn both me to great sorrow, the 
realm to much harm, and you to great reproach. For lo ! here is, 
(quod she,) this gentleman, whom I doubt not I could here keep 
safe, if I would, whatsoever any man say. And I doubt not also, 
that there be some abroad so deadly enemies unto my blood, that 
if they wist where any of it lay in their own body, they would let 
it out. We have also had experience that the desire of a king- 
dom knoweth no kindred. The brother hath been the brother's 
bane. And may the nephews be sure of their uncle ? Each of 
these children is other's defence while they be asunder, and each 
of their lives lieth in the other's body. Keep one safe, and both 
be sure ; and nothing for them both more perilous, than to be both 
in one place. For what wise merchant ventureth all his goods in 
one ship ? All this notwithstanding, here I deliver him, and his 
brother in him, to keep intc your hands, of whom I shall ask them 
both afore God and the world. Faithful ye be, that wot I well ; 
and I know well you be wise. Power and strength to keep him, 
if ye list, neither lack ye of yourself, nor can lack help in their 
cause. And if ye cannot elsewhere, then may you leave him 
here. But only one thing I beseech you, for the trust that his 
father put in you ever, and for the trust that I put in you now, 
that as far as ye think that I fear too much, be you well ware that 
you fear not as far too little. And therewithal, she said unto the 
child : Farewell, my own sweet son ; God send you good keep- 
ing ; let me kiss you once yet ere you go : for God knoweth 
when we shall kiss together again. And therewith she kissed 
him, and blessed him ; turned her back and wept, and went her 
way, leaving the child weeping as fast. 1 

Sir Thomas was twice married. His first wife was the daughter of a 
country gentleman of high standing, Mr. John Colt, who offered to More the 
choice of either of his daughters. He was more pleased with the second, and 
was about to bring matters to a close, when thinking how much it would 
grieve the elder sister to see the younger preferred before her, he at once ad- 
dressed the elder, and married her out of pure benevolence. He was well 
rewarded for his kindness. She proved an excellent wife, sympathizing with 
him in all his labors and duties ; but died after having been married six 
years, leaving three daughters and a son. For his second wife he married a 
widow, Mrs. Alice Middleton, of a very different character. He had not the 
least intention that way himself, but was addressing her in behalf of a friend, 
when she very plainly answered him, that " he might speed the better if he 
would speak in his own behalf." Upon that hint he spake — and married he 
—and, sorrowful to say, lived very uncomfortably with her. " Any heart bu 
More's" says one of his biographers, " would have been broken by this match, 
for she was one of the most loquacious, ignorant, and narrow-minded of 
women ; but, like another Socrates, More endeavored to laugh away his con 

1 The result is known : the kin?, (Edward V.) and his brother, the Duke of York, were murdered 
In the Tower by the usurper, June, 1483. 



52 more. [henry vm. 

jugal miseries." The following letter to her has been deservedly commended 
for its spirit of gentleness, benevolence, and piety: — 

Mistress Alice, in my most hearty wise I recommend me to you. 
And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our 
barns and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein ; 
albeit (saving God's pleasure) it is great pity of so much good 
corn lost ; yet since it has liked him to send us such a chance, we 
must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad 
of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost ; and since he 
hath by such a chance taken it away again, his pleasure be ful- 
filled ! Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, 
and heartily thank him, as w T ell for adversity as for prosperity. 
And peradventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss 
than for our winning, for his wisdom better seeth what is good for 
us than we do ourselves. Therefore, I pray you be of good cheer, 
and take all the household with you to church, and there thank 
God, both for that he has given us, and for that he has taken 
from us, and for that he hath left us ; which, if it please him, he 
can increase when he will, and if it please him to leave us yet 
less, at his pleasure be it ! 

I pray you to make some good onsearch what my poor neigh- 
bours have lost, and bid them take no thought therefore ; for, if 1 
should not leave myself a spoon, there shall no poor neighboui 
of mine bear no loss by my chance, happened in my house. I 
pray you be, with my children and your household, merry in 
God ; and devise somewhat with your friends what way were best 
to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household, and 
for seed this year coming, if we think it good that we keep the 
ground still in our hands. And whether we think it good that 
we so shall do or not, yet I think it were not best suddenly thus 
to leave it all up, and to put away cur folk from our farm, till we 
have somewhat advised us thereon. Howbeit, if we have more 
now than ye shall need, and which can get them other masters, 
ye may then discharge us of them. But I would not that any 
man were suddenly sent away, he wot not whither. 

At my coming hither, I perceived none other but that I should 
tarry still with the king's grace. But now I shall, I think, be- 
cause of this chance, get leave this next week to come home and 
see you, and then shall we farther devise together upon all things, 
what order shall be best to take. 

And thus as heartily fare you well, with all our children, as ye 
can wish. At Woodstock, the third day of September, by the 
hand of Thomas More. 



1509-1547.] TYNDALE. 53 



WILLIAM TYNDALE. 1477—1536. 

No subject is more interesting and instructive than the history of Biblical 
Literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. We have before spoken 
of the claims of John Wiclif to our lasting gratitude, for having given us the 
first English version of the Bible. But that was made, not from the originals, 
but from the Latin Vulgate. Wiclif died 1384. About twenty-four years 
after his death, Archbishop Arundel, in a convocation of the clergy of his 
province assembled at Oxford, published a constitution, by which it was de- 
creed, " that no one should thereafter translate any text of Holy Scripture into 
English, by way of a book, a little book, or tract ; and that no book of this 
kind should be read that was composed lately in the time of John Wiclif, or 
since his death." 

The Latin Bible, or Vulgate, was first printed on the continent in 1462 ; 
the Old Testament in Hebrew, 1488, and the New Testament in Greek about 
1518. When these sacred oracles were brought into England, with the in- 
troduction of printing, the illiterate and terrified monks declaimed from their 
pulpits, that there was now a new language discovered, called Greek, of which 
people should beware, since it was that which produced all the heresies . 
that in this language was come forth a book called the New Testament, which 
was now in everybody's hands, and was full of thorns and briers : that there 
was also another language now started up, which they called Hebrew, and 
that they who learned it were termed Hebrews. One of the priests declared, 
with a most prophetic wisdom, " We must root out printing, or printing will 
root out us." But, notwithstanding the clamors of tire monks, and the perse- 
cutions of the secular clergy, William Tyndale, in the reign of Henry VIII., 
undertook to translate the Scriptures from the original Hebrew and Greek 
into English, though he knew it would be done at the hazard of his life. 

Tyndale was born about the year 1477. At an early age he entered the 
University of Oxford, and while there was a most diligent student : thus he 
laid the foundation of that skill in the learned languages essential to the suc- 
cessful accomplishment of that enterprise which he was soon to take upon 
himself. 

Soon after leaving the University, he became tutor and chaplain in the 
family of Sir John Welsh, a knight of Gloucestershire, whose liberal table 
was sure to procure him the frequent visits of the neighboring prelates and 
clergy. On one occasion, being in company with a popish divine, he argued 
so conclusively in favor of a vernacular translation of the Bible, that the 
divine, unable to answer him, exclaimed, " We had better be without God's 
law than the pope's." This fired the spirit of Tyndale, and he ind'gnantly 
replied, « I defy the pope and all his laws ; and if God gives me life, ere 
many years the ploughboys in England shall know more of the Scriptures 
than you do ;" — a pledge which, in a few years, he most nobly redeemed. 

Finding that he could not accomplish his plans at home, Tyndale, in the 
year 1523, became a voluntary exile from his native land, which he was 
never more to revisit. He went to Antwerp, and there, with great assiduity, 
prosecuted his design of translating the Scriptures into English. The New 
Testament was finished in 1526. It sold so rapidly that the following year 
another edition vas published, and the year after another, each consisting of 
five thousand. Great numbers of these were imported into England and. 
speedily sold, though die importers were prosecute I with great rigor. 



54 TYNDALE. [HENRY VIII. 

His retreat at Antwerp was hidden for some time from those who had 
marked him for their prey. But at length, in 1534, he was betrayed by the 
spies employed by Henry Vni., and imprisoned. Every thing was done by 
the English merchants at Antwerp to release him, and one of them, by the 
name of Thomas Pointz, was so ardent in his cause, that he went to England 
in person, to exert what influence he could in his favor. In the mean time 
the noble martyr was not inactive, but while in prison prepared another edi- 
tion of the Testament, peculiarly adapted to the agricultural laborers; thus 
fulfilling his pledge that the " plough-boys' 1 should have it for themselves. 

But his invaluable life was now drawing to a close. The formalities of a 
trial were gone through ; he was condemned for heresy; and in September, 
1536, he was brought out of prison to surfer the dreadful sentence, — burning 
at the stake. In that appalling moment he exhibited the firmness and resig- 
nation only to be found in the certain confidence of having his portion with 
those " shining ones" (in Bunyan's phrase) who had come out of great tribu- 
lation, and who had 



for Jesus' sake, 



"Writhed on the rack, or blacken'd at the stake. 
While the horrid preparations of death and of burning were going on in full 
view around him, his last thoughts were turned upon the welfare of that 
country which had driven him forth a fugitive ; and his dying voice was that 
of intercession for his royal persecutor. " Lord, open the King of Eng 
land's eyes," were his well-known last words at the stake. 

Rome thunder'd death, but Tyndale's dauntless eye 
Look'd in death's face and smiled, death standing by. 
In spite of Rome, for England's faith he stood, 
And in the flames he seal'd it with his blood. 

It rests on indubitable evidence that Tyndale's voice was hardly hushed 
in death, before his last prayer was answered in a remarkable manner ; foi 
that capricious tyrant soon issued an injunction, ordering that the Bible should 
be placed in every church for the free use of the people. 

Tyndale's translation of the New Testament is admirable both for style 
and accuracy ; and our present version has very closely followed it through 
out. To use the words of a profound modern scholar, 1 " It is astonishing how 
little obsolete the language of it is, even at this day ; and, in point of perspi- 
cuity and noble simplicity, propriety of idiom, and purity of style, no English 
version has yet surpassed it." The following is a fair specimen of this trans- 
lation. 2 

And marke' 3 A Certayne Lawere stode vp' and tempted hym 
sayinge : Master what shall I do' to inheret eternall lyfe ? He 
sayd vnto him : What ys written in the lawe ? Howe redest 
thou ? And he answered and sayde : Thou shalt love thy lorde 
god' wyth all thy hert' and wyth all thy soule' and with all thy 
strengthe' and wyth all thy mynde : and thy neighbour as thy 
»ylfe. And he sayd vnto hym : Thou hast answered right. 
This do and thou shalt live. He wilJynge to iustifie hym sylfe' 
sayde vnto Jesus : Who ys then my neighbour ? 



l r»r. Geddes. 2 See a beautiful edition of Tyndale's Testament, by Rev. J. P. Dabney, Tfitb 

tin interesting memoir, published at Andover, Mass. 3 Behold. 



1509-15470 wtatt. 55 

Jesus answered and sayde : A certayne man descended from 
Jerusalem into Jericho' And fell into the hondes offtheves' whych 
robbed hym off his rayment and wonded hym' and departed 
levynge him halfe deed. And yt chaunsed that there cam a 
certayne preste that same waye' and sawe hym' and passed by. 
And lyke wyse a levite' when he was come neye to the place' 
went and loked on hym and passed by. Then a certayne Sama- 
ritane as he iornyed cam neye vnto hym and behelde hym and 
had compassion on hym and cam to hym and bounde vppe hys 
wondes and poured in wyne and oyle and layed him on his beaste 
and brought hym to a common hostry 1 and drest him. 3 And on 
the rnorowe when he departed he toke out two pence and gave 
them to the host and said vnto him, Take care of him and what- 
soever thou spendest above this when I come agayne I will recom- 
pence the. Which nowe of these thre thynkest thou was neigh- 
bour unto him that fell into the theves hondes ? And he answered : 
He that shewed mercy on hym. Then sayd Jesus vnto hym, Goo 
and do thou lyke wyse. 



SIR THOMAS WYATT. 1503—1542. 

Sir Thomas Wtatt, 3 whose poems are generally published with those 
of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, as they were contemporaries and warm 
personal friends, as well as among the first improvers of the English lan- 
guage, was born in Allington Castle in Kent, in 1503, and educated at Cam- 
bridge. He was early distinguished as a polite and elegant scholar, and was 
remarkable alike for his uncommon beauty of person, for his dexterity and 
address in arms, and for his superior attainments in all the softer arts of 
peace. To a critical knowledge of the ancient classics, he added the French, 
Italian, and Spanish, which he spoke with fluency and elegance. But what 
distinguished him most was, his reputation as a poet, and the charm of his 
conversation. His wit is said to have been inexhaustible, and his readiness 
at repartee such as astonished every one who heard him. 

Possessed of these advantages, it was no wonder that Wyatt should ingra- 
tiate himself with the king, and become a very general favorite at court. He 
was sent on some important foreign missions, and acquitted himself with great 
honor. The last, however, proved fatal to him : for having been sent by the 
king to Falmouth to conduct the ambassador of the Emperor Charles V. to 
court, he rode too fast, took ill of a fever, and died in October, 1 542, in the 
thirty-ninth year of his age. 

He was a man in every respect entitled to more than common admiration ; 
and he obtained the praise of uniting in his character things in themselves 
seemingly discordant; brilliant wit and purity of thought; the ease of the 

1 Inn. " Made provision for him. 

8 See the admirable edition of the "Works of Surrey and Wyatt," b> George *•. Nott, D. D„ two 
volumes, yuarto, London, 1816. 



56 WYATT. [HENRY VIII. 

courtier and the gravity of the Christian. But what distinguished him more 
than even his talents or the powers of his wit, was a certain generous con- 
tempt of vice and an exalted love of virtue, which seem to have been the 
great bond of union between the noble-hearted Surrey and himself. These 
were not with him qualities merely speculative ; they were vital principles, 
perpetually pressing forward into action. " God and goodness," to use his 
own expression, " were ever the foundation of his conduct ;" so that it was 
not possible to know him, and converse with him, without feeling the same 
magnanimous longing after moral excellence by which he himself was ani- 
mated. Thus he ennobled learning, and rendered poetry and polite attain- 
ments honorable, by making them subservient to the cause of Virtue and 
Religion. 

THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE. 1 

My lute, awake! perform the last 
Labor, that thou and I shall waste, 

And end that I have now begun ; 
For when this song is sung and past, 

My lute ! be still, for I have done. 

As to be heard where ear is none ; 
As lead to grave in marble stone, 2 

My song may pierce her heart as soon : 
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? 

No, no, my lute ! for I have done. 

The rock doth not so cruelly 
Repulse the waves continually, 

As she my suit and affection ; 
So that I am past remedy ; 

Whereby my lute and I have done. 

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
Of simple hearts, thorough Love's shot, 

By whom unkind thou hast them won ; 
Think not he hath his bow forgot, 

Although my lute and I have done. 

Vengeance may fall on thy disdain, 
That makest but game of earnest pain. 

Trow not alone under the sun, 
TJnquit to cause thy lover's plain, 

Although my lute and 1 have done. 

May chance thee lie wither'd and old, 
The winter nights that are so cold, 

Plaining in vain unto the moon : 
Thy wishes then dare not be told ; 

Care then who list! for I have done. 



1 This poem is of singular merit, and as Dr. Todd remarks, "is one of the most elegant amatorji 
odes in our language." The lute corresponded nearly to the modern guitar, and every person of 
good education played upon it. 

2 That is, it would be more easy for lead, which is the softest of metals, to engrave characters on 
bard marble, than it is for me to make impression on her obdurate heart. To grave— to make an 
Impression udoii. 



1509-1547.] wyatt. 57 

And then may chance thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent, 

To cause thy lovers sigh, and swoon : 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 

And wish and want, as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute ! this is the last 
Labor, that thou and I shall waste, 

And ended is that I begun ; 
Now is this song both sung and past: 

My lute ! be still, for I have done. 

THE LOVER PRAYETH NOT TO BE DISDAINED, REFUSED, MISTRUSTED, 

NOR FORSAKEN. 

Disdain me not without desert, 

Nor leave me not so suddenly ,* 
Since well ye wot that in my heart 

I mean ye not but honestly. 

Refuse me not without cause why, 

Nor think me not to be unjust ; 
Since that by lot of fantasy, 

This careful knot needs knit I must. 

Mistrust me not, though some there be 
That fain would spot my steadfastness. 

Believe them not, since that ye see 
The proof is not as they express. 

Forsake me not, till I deserve ; 

Nor hate me not, till I offend , 
Destroy me not, till that I swerve ; 

But since ye know what I intend. 1 

Disdain me not, that am your own ; 

Refuse me not, that am so true ; 
Mistrust me not, till all be known ; 

Forsake me not now for no new. 2 



A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE WOULD LOVE. 

A face that should content me wond'rous well, 

Should not be fair, 3 but lovely to behold ; 
With gladsome chere, all grief for to expell ; 

With sober looks so would I that it should 

1 Dr. Nott says that but in this line means " unless," without at all explaining its whole difficulty. 
But, in old writers, is used in the sense of without, and since, or seethan as they spelled it, in tne sens* 
of seeing that, for which it is a contraction: the full meaning of this line, in connection with the 
other, I take to be, " Unless you destroy me, seeing that or after that you know my honest inten 
tions." 

2 An ellipsis, for no new lover. 

3 "Fair" here means regularly beautiful. The sense is. " The face that is to captivate me must not 
be regularly beautiful, but one that has a lovely turn of expression." 



58 WYATT. [HENRY YIII, 

Speak without words, such words as none can tell; 

The tress also should be of crisped 1 gold. 
With wit, and these, might chance I might be tied, 
And knit again the knot that should not slide. 

OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE. 

Stand whoso list, upon the slipper top 

Of high estate; and let me here rejoice, 
And use me quiet without let or stop, 

Unknown in Court, that hath such brackish joys. 
In hidden place so let my days forth pass ; 

That when my years be done withouten noise, 
I may die aged, after the common trace : 

For him death grip'th right hard by the crop, 
That is much known of other, and of himself, alas! 
Both die unknown, dased with dreadful face. 

OF HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN. 

Tagus, farewell ! that westward with thy streams 

Turns up the grains of gold already tried; 2 
With spur and sail, for I go seek the Thames, 

Gainward the sun that sheweth her wealthy pride ; 
And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams, 3 

Like bended moon, doth lend her lusty side, 
My King, my Country, alone for whom I live, 
Of mighty Love the wings for this me give. 4 

What little prose Sir Thomas Wyatt has left us, consists chiefly of letters. 
The following extract from a letter to his only son presents, in its elevated 
sentiments and uncompromising spirit of Christian purity, a beautiful view of 
a true Christian father : — 

My Dear Son, — Inasmuch as now ye are come to some years 
of understanding, and that you should gather within yourself some 
fame of Honesty, I thought that I should not lose my labor wholly 
if now I did something advertise you to take the sure foundations 
and stablished opinions that leadeth to honesty. 

And here, I call not Honesty that, men commonly call Ho- 
nesty, as reputation for riches, for authority, or some like thing ; 
but that Honesty, that I dare well say your grandfather had rather 
left to me than all the lands he did leave me ; that was, Wisdom, 



1 " Crisped" means short curling ringlets, which were artificially produced by curling irons. Pop 
does not introduce these in his description of the toilet in the "Rape of the Lock," 

"Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux." 
We rather smile now at the taste for "golden" colored hair. 

2 " Gold already tried," pure gold. 

3 This alludes: to the old story, that Brutus, the third in descent from JEneas, on quitting his native 
land, sailed for parts unknown, landed at Albion, proceeded inland, and founded London on the 

jorth side of the Thames, which he called Troynovante, as many early English writers call it. 

4 The meaning of this is, "The love I bear my king and my country, give me wings for my jour- 

40V.° 



1509-1547.] wyatt. 59 

Gentleness, Soberness, desire to do Good, Friendship to get the 
love of many, and Truth above all the rest. A great part to have 
all these things, is to desire to have them. And although glory 
and honest name are not the very ends wherefore these things are 
to be followed, yet surely they must needs follow them as light 
followeth fire, though it were kindled for warmth. Out of these 
things the chiefest and infallible ground is the dread and refe- 
rence of God, whereupon shall ensue the eschewing of the con- 
traries of these said virtues ; that is to say, ignorance, unkindness, 
rashness, desire of harm, unquiet enmity, hatied, many and crafty 
falsehoods, the very root of all shame and dishonesty. I say, the 
only dread and reverence of God, that seeth all things, is the 
defence of the creeping in of all these mischiefs into you. And 
for my part, although I do well say there is no man that would 
wish his son better than I ; yet on my faith, I had rather have 
you lifeless, than subject to these vices. 

#|p 5je *|t 5je , 3jfr jfc Sic j|p 

Begin therefore betimes. Make God and goodness your foun- 
dations. Make your examples of wise and honest men : shoot at 
that mark : be no mocker : mocks follow them that delight therein. 
He shall be sure of shame that feeleth no grief in other men's 
shames. Have your friends in a reverence, and think unkind- 
ness to be the greatest offence, and least punished among men ; 
but so much the more to be dreaded, for God is Justiser upon that 
alone. Love well and agree with your wife ; for where is noise 
and debate in the house, there is unquiet dwelling. Frame web 
yourself to love and rule well and honestly your wife as your fel- 
low, and she shall love and reverence you as her head. Such as- 
you are unto her, such shall she be unto you. Obey and reve- 
rence your father-in-law, as you would me ; and remember that 
long life followeth them that reverence their fathers and elders ; 
and the blessing of God, for good agreement between the wife and 
husband, is fruit of many children. 

Read oft this my letter, and it shall be as though I had often 
written to you ; and think that I have herein printed a fatherly 
affection to you. If I may see that I have not lost my pain, mine 
shall be the contentation, and yours the profit ; and upon condi- 
tion that you follow my advertisement, I send you God's blessing 
and mine, and as well to come to hcnesty, as to increase of years. 



60 HOWARD. [HENRY VIII. 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 1516—1547 

Hej? rt Howard, Earl of Surrey, the eldest son of Thomas Howard, Earl 
ol Surrey, and Lady Elizabeth Stafford, was born about 1516. We say about 
that year, for we are as ignorant of the precise date of his birth as we are of 
all that relates to his early education, and the habits of his early life. In 
1535 his marriage with the Lady Frances Vere was publicly solemnized, 
from which time what relates to his personal history is authentic. In 1540 
he began to take an active part in public affairs, being sent by the king over 
to the continent, to see that the English towns and garrisons were in a proper 
state of defence against the threatened attack of the French. In April, 1542, 
he was made Knight of the Garter, which was esteemed a great mark of 
royal favor; and in October of the same year, lie bore an active and leading 
part in the expedition against Scotland. In 1544 he acted as field-marshal 
of the English forces on the continent, and in that and the two succeeding 
years, he greatly distinguished himself by his valor and skill, at the sieges of 
Landrecy and Boulogne. 

But as his popularity increased, his interest declined with the king, whose 
caprices and jealousies grew more violent with his years and infirmities. 
The brilliancy of Surrey's character, the celebrity he had acquired in military 
science in his command on the continent, his general abilities, his wit, learn- 
ing, and affability, were viewed with suspicion by the Earl of Hertford, the 
king's brother, who, as he saw the monarch's end approaching, was anxious 
to secure to himself the protectorship during Edward the Sixth's minority, 
and he saw that the only rival he had to fear was the great and good Earl 
of Surrey. Accordingly he did all he could to poison the mind of the king 
against him; and in April, 1546, he was recalled from the continent, im- 
prisoned in Windsor Castle, 1 and in December of the same year was sent to 
the Tower. He was soon brought to trial. The accusations against him 
were of the most frivolous character, the chief of which was brought against 
him by his unnatural sister, the Duchess of Richmond. She said that he 
wore on his arms, instead of a duke's coronet, what " seemed, to her judg- 
ment, much like a close crown ;" and a cipher, " which she took to be the 
king's cipher, H. R." On this did she intimate that her brother was guilty 
of high treason. Surrey defended himself with great spirit and ability, and 
as to the main point in the indictment, showed conclusively that his ances- 
tors had, of a long continuance, worn the same coat of arms, as well within 
the kingdom as without; and that it had constantly been borne by him- 
self in Henry's presence. But all was of no avail ; the ruling influences, 
with Hertford at their head, determined that he should be convicted. Ac- 
cordingly he was pronounced guilty, and was beheaded on the 19th of Janu- 
ary, 1547. 

Thus fell, at the early age of thirty, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey : a man 
of such elevated virtues, and such rare endowments, that his untimely death 
must, with every one, be a subject of deep regret; for what might he not 
have done for English Literature, had his life been spared? 2 The endow- 

i Where he wrote the first poem here inserted. 

2 Warton says, "For justness of thought, correctness of style, and purity of expression, he may 
UKUy be pronounced the first English classical poet." 



1509-1547.] Howard. 61 

ments of his mind were various; his acquirements great. There was no 
polite :t manly accomplishment in which he did not excel. He was master 
of the Latin, the French, the Italian, and the Spanish languages. He had a 
vigorous intellect, and a quick and ready wit. He was fond of literary fame, 
and studious of literary excellence: but he beheld it in others without envy. 
His own genius was of a moral and contemplative cast. His noble mind 
never stooped to any thing that would inflame passion, or solicit improper 
jesire. It is his peculiar praise that not a single thought nor a single ex- 
pression can be found in all his writings, to wound the nicest sense of mo- 
desty, or to degrade the dignity of poetry. To crown all, he had the highest 
reverence for religion, and the Scriptures were equally his consolation and 
delight: by these he strengthened those moral principles which governed all 
his actions, and confirmed in his heart that generous contempt of vice 
which is experienced by none but men of noble minds. Such was the Earl 
of Surrey. 1 

PRISONER 2 IN WINDSOR, HE RECOTJNTETH HIS PLEASURE THtfRE 
PASSED IN FORMER YEARS. 

So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 

As proud Windsor ? where I in lust and joy, 
With a King's son, my childish 3 years did pass, 

In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. 
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour. 

The large green courts, where we were wont to hove, 4 

1 I cannot but insert here a portion of Dr. Nott's very discriminating and just comparison be- 
tween Surrey and Wyatt :— " They were men whose minds may be said to have been cast in the same 
mould ; for they difi'er only in those minuter shades of character which always must exist in human 
nature. In their love of virtue, and their instinctive hatred and contempt of vice ; in their freedom 
from personal jealousy ; in their thirst after knowledge and intellectual improvement; in nice obser- 
vation of nature, promptitude to action, intrepidity, and fondness for romantic enterprise; in mag- 
nificence and liberality; in generous support of others, and high-spirited neglect of themselves; in 
constancy in friendship, and tender susceptibility of affections of a still warmer nature, and in 
every thing connected with sentiment and principle, they were one and the same; but when those 
qualities branch out into particulars, they will be found in some respects to differ. 

" Wyatt had a deeper and more accurate penetration into the characters of men than Surrey had : 
hence arises the difference in their satires. Surrey, in his satire against the citizens of London, deals 
only in reproach; Wyatt, in his, jibounds with irony, and those nice touches of ridicule which make 
us ashamed of our faults, and therefore often silently effect amendment. Surrey's observation of 
nature was minute; but he directed it towards the works of nature in general, and the movements 
of the passions, rather than to the foibles and the characters of men; hence it is that he escels in the 
description of rural objects, and is always tender and pathetic. In Wyatt's complaint*, we lear 
a strain of manly grief which commands attention'; and we listen to it with respect, for the sake of 
him that suffers. Surrey's distress is painted in such natural terms, that we make it our own, and 
recognise in his sorrows, emotions which we are conscious of having felt ourselves." Read, also, a 
fine article on Surrey and Wyatt in the 2d vol. of D'Israeli's " Amenities of Literature.'-' 

2 This poem was written about 1546, when Surrey was imprisoned at Windsor, not long after hia 
return from Boulogne. See notice of his life. "It is a poem," says Dr. Nott, "of singular beauty, 
and may be ranked among the most perfect compositions in our language." 

3 The words "child," "childish," "childhood," had in former times a much larger meaning than 
they now have. Both Chaucer and Spenser use them as applied to "early manhood." The phrase, 
"childish years," therefore, means to describe the time when the Duke of Richmond and himself 
were just entering on manhood. At the time of his residence in Windsor, 1534, Surrey was about 
eighteen and the Duke of Richmond about fifteen. 

4 "To hove," to linger about a place in expectation or hope : same as "to hover." 

6 



62 HOWARD. [HENRY VIII. 

With eyes cast up unto the Maiden's tower, 1 

And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. 
The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, 

The dances short, long tales of great delight ; 
With words, and looks, that tigers could but rue, 2 

Where each of us did plead the other's right. 
The palme-play, 3 where, despoiled 4 for the game, 

With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love, 
Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame, 

To bait 5 her eyes, which kept the leads above. 6 
The gravel'd ground, 7 with sleeves tied on the helm, 8 

On foaming horse with swords and friendly hearts ; 
With chere, 9 as though one should another whelm, 

Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. 
The secret groves, which oft we made resound 

Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; 
Recording soft what grace each one had found, 

What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. 
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 10 

With reins avail'd, 11 and swift-ybreathed horse, 
With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, 

Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. 
The void walls 12 eke that harbor 'd us each night: 

Wherewith, alas ! revive within my breast 
The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; 

The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest ; 
The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; 

The wanton talk, 13 the divers change of play ; 
The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, 

Wherewith we past the winter nights away. 
O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 

Give me account, where is my noble fere ? 14 
Whom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose • 

To other lief; 15 but unto me most dear. 



1 " Maiden's tower," that part of the castle where the ladies of the court had their apartments. 

2 Such looks and entreaties as might have moved tigers to pity. 

3 " Palme-play," a game played with a ball and hand, so called because the ball was hit with the 
palm : it was also played with the bat, and similar to tennis. 

4 "Despoiled," stripped for the game. 5 "To bait," to allure, to attract. 

6 "Which kept the leads above." The word "lead" is used by old writers for a flat roof covered 
with lead, and the plural " leads" is therefore probably used for the walks or galleries (covered with 
lead) around the upper stories of the building, where the ladies might sit and see the game played in 
8 ifety. 

7 "The gravel'd ground," the space enclosed, made level with fine gravel. 

8 It was a general practice among ancient knights to tie to their helmets a sleeve or glove, received 
from their lady-love, which they wore not only in tilts and tournaments, but even in battle. 

9 " Chere" is used by all the old poets for the look, the expression of the countenance. 

10 " The clothed holts with green," the high hills clothed with verdure. 

U " Reins availed," mean slackened, so as to allow the horse to go at full speed. 

12 "Void walls," the walls of those chambers now desolate, which were wont each night to 
receive us. 

13 "Wanton talk," playful conversation. The word "wanton" was used by early writers is 
descriptive of the sportivencss and innocence of infancy. 14 "Fere," companion. 

'5 "Lief," spelled also kef and leve, is an adjective, meaning "dear." The person here alluded to 
by Surrey was probably his sister, the Lady Mar> who was married to the Duke of Ricnmoud. 



1509-1547.] howard. 63 

THE FRAILTY AND HURTFULNE3S OF BEAUTY. 

Brittle beauty, that Nature made so frail, 

Whereof the gift is small, and shorter is the season ; 
Flow'ring to-day, to-morrow apt to fail ; 

Tickle 1 treasure, abhorred of reason : 
Dangerous to deal with, vain, of none avail ; 

Costly in keeping, past, not worth two peason f 
Slipperer in sliding than is an eel's tail ; 

Hard to obtain, once gotten never geason ; 3 
Jewel of jeopardy, 4 that peril doth assail; 

False and untrue, enticed oft to treason ; 
En*my to youth, that most men bewail ; 

Ah ! bitter sweet, infecting as the poison, 
Thou farest as the fruit that with the frost is taken ; 
To-day ready ripe, to-morrow all to shaken. 

IN PRAISE OF HIS LADY-LOVE COMPARED WITH ALL OTHERS. 5 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 

That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; 

My lady : s beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well say'n, 6 

Than doth the sun the candle light, 

Or brightest day the darkest night. 

And thereto hath a troth as just 

As had Penelope the fair 5 
For what she saith ye may it trust, 

As it by writing sealed were; 
And virtues hath she many mo' 
Than I with pen have skill to show. 

I could rehearse, if that I would, 

The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 
When she had lost the per fit mould, 

The like to whom she could not paint: 7 
With wringing hands, how she did cry, 
And what she said, I know it, I. 

I know she swore with raging mind, 

Her kingdom only set apart, 
There was no loss by law of kind 

That could have gone so near her heart ; 
And this was chiefly all her pain ; 
" She could not make the like agam." 

* "Tickle," having no foundation, liable to sudden downfall. 2 "Peason," the plural 01 peas. 

8 The word "geason," of which the derivation is unknown, is used by the old writers with differ 
^x\t shades of meaning. Spenser employs it in the sense of "rare and uncommon." Here it seems 
to mean "something worth possessing:" for the sense of the passage is "once gotten not worth poo- 
wsssing." 

I "Jewel of jeopardy;" that is, a jewel which there is much danger of losing. 

5 "Warton says that this ode "possesses almost the ease and gallantry of Waller; the versification 
M correct, the language polished, and the modulation musical." 

6 "Say'n" for say, often thus used by the old writers. 

7 To " paint" in Surrey's age meant to mould, to form or fashion as the sculptor does. 



64 Howard. [Mary, 

Sitb Nature thus gave her the praise 

To be the chiefest work she wrought; 
In faith, methink ! some better ways 

On your behalf might well be sought, 
Than to compare, as ye have done, 
To match the candle with the sun. 

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING. 1 

The soote 2 season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 

With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 

The turtle to her make 3 hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs; 

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale, 4 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 

The fishes flete 5 with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she flings ; 

The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 6 
The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 7 

Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 

OF THE HAPPY LIFE AND THE MEANS TO ATTAIN IT. 

Maktial, the things that do attain 

The happy life, be these, I find ; 
The riches left, not got with pain: 

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind: 

The equal friend, no grudge, no strife ; 

No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
Without disease, the healthful life ; 

The household of continuance : 8 

The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 

True wisdom join'd with simpleness; 
The night discharged of all care, 

Where wine the wit may not oppress : 

The faithful wife, without debate; 

Such sleeps as may beguile the night. 
Content thee with thine own estate ; 

Ne wish for Death, ne fear his might. 

1 " This sonnet is perhaps the most beautiful specimen of descriptive poetry in our language.*— 
Dr. Nott. 

2 " Soote" was continued in use long after its substitute sweet was introduced. 

3 « Make," synonymous with mate. 

* The uneasiness experienced by this animal before be sheds his horns, leads him to rub his fore- 
head against the paling of the park. 

ft "Fletc" is not fleet, to "pass rapidly by," but nearer to our "float," except that it means what 
wwims through the water as well as on its surface. 

•> This was not only the old way of spelling small, but also of pronouncing it, with the long a, as in 
hate. 1 Mingles. 

■» This line probably means, a "household" or family that is not of recent establishment, and 
promises to be ot duration. 



1553-1558.] latimer. 05 



HUGH LATIMER. 1475—1555. 

Htr<vH Latimer, bishop of Worcester, was born about the year 1475. 
Being an only son, and of quick parts, his father, a respectable yeoman, re- 
solved to make him a scholar, and after due preparation he entered Cam- 
bridge. He was a zealous papist till the age of thirty, when he was con- 
verted by Thomas Bilney, 1 and began with great zeal to propagate the 
opinions of the reformers. During the reign of Edward VI., (1547 — 1553,) 
he was pre-eminent among his zealous contemporaries in spreading the doc- 
trines of the Reformation, and, in conjunction with Cranmer, was one of the 
principal instruments in effecting its establishment. But in the persecutions 
ef Mary, he was singled out as one of the most desired victims of popish 
vengeance. He might have made his escape, and the opportunity which 
was given him seems to nave been designed; but Latimer had the true spirit 
of a martyr, and determined to remain at his post of duty. As he passed 
through Smithfield on his way to London after his arrest, he exclaimed, " This 
olace has long groaned for me." After a tedious imprisonment he persisted 
In refusing to subscribe to certain articles which were submitted to him, and 
jb.e was led forth to his horrid death, October 16, 1555. 

With a staff in his hand, a pair of spectacles hanging at his breast, and 
a Bible at his girdle, he walked to the place of execution, with his fellow 
nartyr, Nicholas Ridley, bishop of London. On their way Ridley outwent 
Latimer some way before ; but he, looking back, espied Latimer coming after, 
and said to him, "0 be ye there?" "Yea," said Latimer, « have after as fast 
as I can follow." Ridley first entered the lists, dressed in his clerical habit; 
and soon after, Latimer, as usual, in his prison garb. Latimer now suffered 
the keeper to pull off his prison-garb, and then he appeared in a shroud. 
Being ready, he fervently recommended his soul to God, and then delivered 
himself to the executioner, saying to Ridley these prophetical words: "Be of 
good cheer, master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day kindle such 
a torch in England as I trust in God shall never be extinguished." Two 
bags of gunpowder were fastened under his arms, the explosion of which 
instantaneously deprived him of life. At this moment a quantity of blood 
seemed to gush from his heart, as if all the blood in his body had been 
there collected. But poor Ridley was less fortunate. His extremities were 
consumed to the trunk before the fire affected his vitals, and he died in lin- 
gering anguish.2 

A YEOMAN OF HENRY SEVENTH'S TIME. 

My father was a yeoman, and had no lands of his own, only he 
had a farm of SI. or 41. by year at the uttermost, and hereupon he 
tilled so much as kept half a dozen men. He had walk for an 

1 At first himself also a Romish priest; but he was afterwards burnt for heresy. 

2 "Nor were the labors and constancy of our reformers at all inferior to those of the early propa- 
gators of the Gospel. Whoever has admired the faith and heroic sufferings of Ignatius or Polycarp, 
must look with no less satisfaction on those of Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, and Hooper. It is impos- 
sible not to venerate their glowing piety, their profound humility, their patience under sufferings, 
their praises of God under distresses and privations of every kind, then prayers for their perse- 
cutors, their exemplar*/ and triumphant death."— Lectures on Paganism av.d Christianity compared, by 
John Ireland, D. D.— a most admirable work. 

E 6* 



66 LATIMER. [MARY, 

hundred sheep, and my mother milked 30 kine. He was able, 
and. did find the king a harness, with himself and his horse, while 
he came to the place that he should receive the king's wages. I 
can remember that I buckled his harness when he went to Black- 
heath field. He kept me to school, or else I had not been able to 
have preached before the king's majesty now. He married my 
sisters with 5/. or 20 nobles apiece, so that he brought them up 
in godliness and fear of God. He kept hospitality for his poor 
neighbours. And some alms he gave to the poor, and all this did 
he of the said farm. Where he that now hath it, payeth 16/. by 
the year, or more, and is not able to do any thing for his prince, 
for himself, nor for his children, or give a cup of drink to the poor. 
In my time my poor father was as diligent to teach me to shoot ; 
as to learn me any other thing, and so I think other men did their 
children : he taught me how to draw, how to lay my body in my 
bow, and not to draw with strength of arms as divers other nations 
do, but with strength of the body. I had my bows bought me 
according to my age and strength ; as I increased in them, so 
my bows were made bigger and bigger, for men shall never shoot 
well, except they be brought up in it : it is a worthy game, a 
wholesome kind of exercise, and much commended in physic. 

HIS EXAMINATION BEFORE THE BISHOPS. 

I was once in examination before five or six bishops, where I 
had much turmoiling ; every week thrice I came to examination, 
and many snares and traps were laid to get something. Now 
God knoweth, I was ignorant of the law, but that God gave me 
answer and wisdom what I should speak. It was God indeed, for 
else I had never escaped them. At the last I was brought forth 
to be examined, into a chamber hanged with arras, where I was 
wont to be examined, but now at this time the chamber was some- 
what altered. For whereas before there was wont ever to be a 
fire in the chimney, now the fire was taken away, and an arras 
hanging hanged over the chimney, and the table stood near the 
chimney's end : so that I stood between the table and the chim- 
ney's end. There was among these bishops that examined me, 
one with whom I have been very familiar, and took him for my 
great friend, an aged man, and he sate next the table's end. 

Then among all other questions he put forth one, a very subtle 
and crafty one, and such a one indeed as I could not think so great 
danger in. And I should make answer : I pray you, master 
Latimer, saith he, speak out : I am very thick of hearing, and 
here be many that sit far off. I marvelled at this, that I was bid- 
den speak out, and began to misdeem, and gave an ear to the 
chimney. And, sir, there I heard a pen walking in the chimney 



1553-1558.] latimer. 67 

behind the cloth. They had appointed one there to write all my 
answers, for they made sure work that I should not start from 
them : there was no starting from them. 

God was my good Lord, and gave me answer ; I could never 
else have escaped it. The question was this : Master Latimer, 
do you not think on your conscience, that you have been suspected 
of heresy ? A subtle question, a very subtle question. There 
was no holding of peace would serve. To hold my peace had 
been to grant myself faulty. To answer it was every way full of 
danger. But God, which alway had given me answer, helped 
me, or else I could never have escaped it, and delivered me from 
their hands. 

CAUSE AND EFFECT. 

Here is now an argument to prove the matter against the 
preachers. Here was preaching against covetousness all the last 
year, and the next summer followed rebellion : Ergo, preaching 
against covetousness was the cause of the rebellion — a goodly ar- 
gument. Here now I remember an argument of master More's 
which he bringeth in a book that he made against Bilney ; and 
here by the way I will tell you a merry toy. Master More was 
once sent in commission into Kent, to help to try out (if it might 
be) what was the cause of Goodwin Sands, and the shelf that 
stopped up Sandwich haven. Thither cometh master More, and 
calleth the country afore him, such as were thought to be men of 
experience, and men that could of likelihood best certify him of 
that matter concerning the stopping of Sandwich haven. Among 
others came in before him an old man, with a white head, and one 
that was thought to be little less than a hundred 3^ears old. When 
master More saw this aged man, he thought it expedient to hear 
him say his mind in this matter, (for being so old a man, it was 
likely that he knew most of any man in that presence and com- 
pany.) So master More called this old aged man unto him, and 
said : Father, (said he,) tell me, if you can, what is the cause of 
this great arising of the sands and shelves here about this haven, 
the which stop it up, that no ships can arrive here ? Ye are the 
eldest man I can espy in all this company, so that if any man can 
tell any cause of it, ye of likelihood can say most to it, or at least- 
wise, more than any man here assembled. Yea forsooth, good 
master, (quoth this old man,) for I am well nigh a hundred years 
old, and no man here in this company any thing near unto mine 
age. Well then, (quoth master More,) how say you in this mat- 
ter ? What think you to be the cause of these shelves and flats 
that stop up Sandwich haven ? Forsooth sir, (quoth he,) I am 
an old man ; I think that Tenterton-steeple is the cause of Good- 



68 CHEKE. [MART, 

win Sands. For I am an old man, sir, (quoth he,) and I may re- 
member the building of Tenterton-steeple, and I may remember 
when there was no steeple at all there. And before that Ten- 
terton-steeple was in building, there was no manner of speaking 
of any flats or sands that stopped the haven ; and therefore I 
think that Tenterton-steeple is the cause of the destroying and 
decay of Sandwich haven. And so to my purpose, is preaching 
of God's word the cause of rebellion, as Tenterton-steeple was 
cause that Sandwich haven was decayed. 



SIR JOHN CHEKE. 1514—1557. 

In the year 1540, Henry VIII. founded a Greek professorship at Cam- 
bridge, of which Cheke was elected the first professor, when only twenty-six 
years of age ; so early was he distinguished for his classical attainments. In 
1544 he was appointed tutor to Prince Edward, 1 who, on his accession to the 
throne, rewarded him with a pension of a hundred marks and a grant of 
several lands and manors ; and in 1551 conferred on him the honor of knight- 
hood. Sir John was a zealous protestant ; in consequence of which he was 
severely persecuted by the bigoted Mary, twice imprisoned in the Tower, 
stript of his whole substance, and ultimately reduced to that dilemma which 
tried the stoutest hearts — " Either turn or burn." His religious zeal was not 
proof against this fiery ordeal, and he recanted. His property was now re- 
stored; but his recantation was followed by such bitterness of remorse, that 
he survived it but a short time, dying in 1557, at the early age of forty-three. 

The period in which Cheke flourished is highly interesting to letters. His 
influence was very great in promoting a taste for classical and philological 
learning. He introduced a new method of pronouncing Greek, which, not 
withstanding the violent fulminations of the papal clergy, ultimately pre- 
vailed and still prevails. We are also very much indebted to him for the 
improvement of our own language. He recommended and practised a more 
minute attention to the meaning of words and phrases, and adopted a more 
skilful arrangement of them in composition. Before him, the sentences were 
long, and often involved. He used short sentences, and wrote with greater 
precision, perspicuity, and force of style than his predecessors. 

His works were numerous, but they chiefly consisted of Latin translations 
from the Greek. Almost his only English work extant is his tract, entitled 
" The Hurt of Sedition." In the summer of 1549 a formidable rebellion broke 
out in many of the counties in England. The rebels in the western part 
favored the papal religion, which they were desirous to restore. These Sir 
John addresses thus : 

I To this Milton alludes in one of his sonnets : 

" Thy age like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheke, 
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, 
"When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward Greek." 



1553-1558.] cheke. 69 

THE NEW AND THE OLD RELIGION CONTRASTED. 

Ye rise for religion. What religion taught you that ? If ye 
were offered persecution for religion, ye ought to flee. So Christ 
teacheth you, and yet you intend to fight. If ye would stand in 
the truth, ye ought to suffer like martyrs ; and ye would slay like 
tyrants. Thus for religion, ye keep no religion, and neither will 
follow the counsel of Christ nor the constancy of martyrs. Why 
rise ye for religion ? Have ye any thing contrary to God's book ? 
Yea, have ye not all things agreeable to God's word ? But the 
new [religion] is different from the old ; and therefore ye will 
have the old. If ye measure the old by truth, ye have the oldest. 
If ye measure the old by fancy, then it is hard, because men's 
fancies change, to give that is old. Ye will have the old stile. 
Will ye have any older than that as Christ left, and his apostles 
taught, and the first church did use ? Ye will have that the 
canons do establish. Why that is a great deal younger than that 
ye have of later time, and newlier invented ; yet that is it that ye 
desire. And do ye prefer the bishops of Rome afore Christ ? 
Men's inventions afore God's law? The newer sort of worship 
before the older ? Ye seek no religion ; ye be deceived ; ye seek 
traditions. They that teach you, blind you ; that so instruct you, 
deceive you. If ye seek what the old doctors say, yet look what 
Christ, the oldest of all, saith. For he saith, " before Abraham 
w r as made, I am." If ye seek the truest way, he is the very truth 
If*ye seek the readiest way, he is the very way. If ye seek ever- 
lasting life, he is the very life. What religion would ye have 
other how than his religion ? You would have the Bibles in 
again. It is no mervail ; your blind guides should lead you blind 

Ot"I ^" * * *■* ^ * * 

But why should ye not like that [religion] which God's word 
establisheth, the primitive church hath authorized, the greatest 
learned men of this realm have drawn the whole consent of, the 
parliament hath confirmed, the king's majesty hath set forth ? Is 
it not truly set out ? Can ye devise any truer than Christ's apos- 
tles used ? Ye think it is not learnedly done. Dare ye, com- 
mons, take upon you more learning than the chosen bishops and 
clerks of this realm have ? * * * * * 

Learn, learn to know this one point of religion, that God will 
be worshipped as he hath prescribed, and not as we have devised. 
And that his will is wholly in the Scriptures, which be full of 
God's spirit, and profitable to teach the truth. 



70 HEYWOOD. [ELIZABETH, 



JOHN HEYWOOD. Died 1565. 
THE DRAMA. 1 

The name of John Heywood introduces us at once to that department of 
Literature, in which the English have excelled all the other nations of the 
world — the Drama. It is impossible to fix any precise date for the origin of 
the English Drama. In tracing its history, however, we must make four 
divisions — the Miracle Plays — the Moral Plays — the Interludes — and the 
Legitimate Drama. 

The Miracle Plats. It would appear that, at the dawn of modern civi- 
lization, most countries of Europe possessed a rude kind of theatrical enter- 
tainment, consisting of the principal supernatural events of the Old and New 
Testaments, and of the history of the saints ; whence they were called Mira- 
cles, or Miracle Plays. Some of their subjects were The Creation — The Fall 
of Man— The Flood— Abraham's Sacrifice— The Birth of Christ— His Bap- 
tism, &c. These plays were acted by the clergy, and were under their im- 
mediate management, for they maintained that they were favorable to the 
cause of religion. On the contrary, the language and the representations of 
these plays were indecorous and profane in the highest degree : and wdiat 
must have been die state of society, when ecclesiastics patronised such scenes 
of blasphemy and pollution! Let us hear no more about "the good old 
times," for " times" were doubtless far worse then than now. 

Moral Plats. The next step in the progress of the Drama was the Moral 
Play. The Moral Plays were dramas of which the characters were chiefly 
allegorical or abstract. They were certainly a great advance upon the Mira- 
cles, as they endeavored to convey sound moral lessons, and at the same time 
gave occasion to some poetical and dramatic ingenuity, in imaging forth the 
characters, and assigning appropriate speeches to each. The only scriptural 
character retained in them, was die Devil. He was rendered as grotesque 
and hideous as possible by the mask and dress he wore. We learn that his 
exterior was shaggy and hairy, one of the characters mistaking him for a 
dancing bear. That he had a tail, if it required proof, is evident from die 
circumstance, that in one play, the other chief character, called Vice, asks him 
for a piece of it to make a fly-trap. Thus, what would otherwise have been 
quite a sober performance, was rendered no little entertaining. 

1 We now enter upon the age of Queen Elizabeth, and I cannot but insert here the following fine 
remarks from the ISth vol. of the Edinburgh Review : — "We cannot resist the opportunity of here 
saying a word or two of a class of writers, whom we have long worshipped in secret with a sort 
of idolatrous veneration, and now find once more brought forward as candidates for public applause 
The era to which they belong, indeed, has always appeared to us by far the brightest in the history 
of English literature, or indeedof human intellect and capacity. There never was, anywhere, any 
thing like the sixty or seventy years that elapsed from the middle of Elizabeth's reign to the period 
of the Restoration. In point of real force and originality of genius, neither the age of Pericles, nor 
the age of Augustus, nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis XIV., can come at all into comparison ; 
for, in that short period, we shall find^the names of almost all the very great men that tins nation has 
ever produced,— the names of Shakspeare, and Bacon, and Spenser, and Sidney, and Hoolcer, and 
Taylor, and Barrow, and Raleigh, and Napier, and Milton, and Cudworth, and Hobbes, and many 
others; — men, all of them, not merely of great talents and accomplishments, but of vast compass 
and reach of understanding, and of minds truly creative and original; — not perfecting art by the 
delicacy of their taste, or digesting knowledge by the justness of their reasonings ; but making vast 
and substantial additions to Uie materials upon which taste and reason must hereafter be em- 
ployed,— and enlarging, to an incredible and unparalleled extent, both the stores and the resources 
of the human faculties 



1558-1603.] heywood. 71 

Lxtetietjdes. 1 The Interludes were something between the Moral Piayi 
and the modern Drama. The Moral Plays were frequent in the reign of 
Henry YI. (1422—1461.) In the reign of Henry VII. (1485—1500) they 
flourished in all their glory, and continued in force down to the latter half of 
the sixteenth century. But it was at length found that a real human being 
with a human name, -was better calculated to awaken the sympathies, and 
keep alive the attention of an audience, and not less so to impress them with 
moral truths, than a being who only represented a notion of the mind. The 
substitution of these for die symbolical characters, gradually took place dur- 
ing the earlier part of the sixteenth century, and before its close the English 
drama, in the writings of Shakspeare, reached its highest excellence. 

One of the most successful writers of Interludes was John Heywood, or as 
he was commonly called, " Merry John Heywood." He was a native of 
London, but the year of his birdi is unknown. He studied for some time at 
Oxford, but did not take his degree. He was of a social, festive genius, the 
favorite of Henry YIIL, and afterwards of his daughter, Queen Mary, who 
were delighted with his dramatic representations. It is rather singular diat 
the latter should have been so much pleased, as Heywood exposed, in terms 
of great severity, the vicious Lives of die ecclesiastics. The play which per- 
haps best illustrates the genius of Heywood, is that called the "Four P's," 
which is a dialogue between a Palmer, 2 a Pardoner, a Poticary, 3 and a 
Pedler. Four such knaves afforded so humorous a man as Heywood was, 
abundant materials for satire, and he has improved them to some advantage. 
The piece opens with the Palmer, who boasts of his peregrinations to the 
Holy Land, to Rome, to Santiago in Spain, and to a score of other shrines. 
This boasting was interrupted by the Pardoner, who tells him that he has 
been foolish to give himself so much trouble, when he might have obtained 
the object of his journey — the pardon of his sins — at home. 

For at your door myself doth dwell, 
Who could have saved your soul as well, 
As all your wid.e wandering shall do, 
Though ye went thrice to Jericho. 

The Palmer will not hear his labors thus disparaged, and he thus exclaims 

to the impostor, the relic- vender : 

Eight seldom is it seen, or never, 

That truth and Pardoners dwell together. 

The Pardoner then rails at the folly of pilgrimages, and asserts in strong 

terms the virtues of his spiritual nostrums ; 

With small cost, and without any pain, 
These pardons bring them to heaven plain. 

The Poticary now speaks, and is resolved to have his share of the merit 
Of what avail are all the wanderings of the one or die relics of the other, 
until the soul is separated from the body? And who sends so many into liia 

1 A species of farce, so called because they were played at the intervals of festivity. 

2 Every Palmer -was a Pilgrim, but every Pilgrim was not a Palmer. The Pilgrim so called was one 
who had visited any foreign shore, and who on his return wore some badge peculiar to the place 
visited. Those, for instance, who visited the statue of St. James at Santiago (Spain) wore, on their 
return, the scallop-shell so frequent in that neighbourhood. But the term Palmer was applied to 
those only who had visited the holy places of Palestine, in token of which he bore in his hat a small 
portion of the palm, which so much abounds in that region. 

s In early times the apothecary and physician were united in the same person. 



72 HEYWOOD. [ELIZABETH, 

other world as the apothecary ? Except such as may happen to be hanged, 
(which, for any thing he knows, may be the fate of the Palmer and Par- 
doner,) who dies by any other help than that of the apothecary 1 As, there- 
fore, it is he, he says, who fills heaven with inmates, who is so much entitled 
tc the gratitude of mankind 1 The Pardoner is here indignant, and asks what 
is the benefit of dying, and what, consequently, the use of an apothecary, even 
should he kill a thousand a day, to men who are not in a state of grace 1 
And what, retorts the other, would be the use of a thousand pardons round 
the neck, unless people died 1 The Poticary, who is the most sensible of the 
three, concludes that all of them are rogues, when the Pedler makes his ap- 
pearance. 

He, like his companions, commends his wares. How can there be any 
love without courtship 1 And how can women be won without such tempt- 
ing gifts as are in his sack 1 

Who liveth in love and love would win, 

Even at this pack he must begin. 
He then displays his wares, and entreats them to buy: but the churchmen 
of that day were beggars, not buyers ; and the Poticary is no less cunning. 
At length the Pardoner reverts to the subject of conversation when the Pedler 
entered, and, in order to draw out the opinion of the last comer, states the 
argument between himself and his two companions. The Pedler seems, at 
first, surprised that the profession of an apothecary is to kill men, and thinks 
the world may very well do without one ; but the other assures him he is 
under a mistake ; that the Poticary is the most useful, and for this notable 
reason, that when any man feels that his " conscience is ready," all he has 
to do is to send for the practitioner, who will at once despatch him. 

Weary of their disputes for pre-eminence of merit and usefulness, the 
Pedler proposes that the other three shall strive for the mastery by lying, and 
that the greatest liar shall be recognised as head of the rest. The task he 
imposes on them cannot, he says, be a heavy one, for all are used to it. 
They are each to tell a tale. The Poticary commences, and the Pardoner 
follows. Their lies are deemed very respectable, but the Palmer is to be 
victorious, as he ends his tale in these words : — 

Yet have I seen many a mile, 

And many a woman in the while j 

And not one good city, town, or borough, 

In Christendom but I have been thorough : 

And this I would ye should understand, 

I have seen women, five hundred thousand : 

Yet in all places where I have been, 

Of all the women that I have seen, 

I never saw nor knew in my conscience, 

Any one woman out of patience. 

Nothing can exceed the surprise of the other three at this astounding asser- 
tion, except the ingenuity with which they are made to express — unwillingly 
yet involuntarily — the Palmer's superiority in the " most ancient and notable 
art of lying." 

Poticary. By the mass, there's a great lie ! 
Pardoner. I never heard a greater — by our Lady! 
Pedler. A greater ! nay, knew you any one so great ? 

And so ends the old interlude of "Merry John Heywood," of the "FourP's." 



1558-1603.] still. 73 

JOHN STILL, 
AND HIS GAMMER GURTOn's NEEDLE. 

To John Still, master of arts of Christ's College, Cambridge, and subse 
quently archdeacon of Sudbury, and lastly bishop of Bath and Wells, is as- 
cribed the first genuine comedy in our language. It was first acted in 156b, 
and was printed in 1575, under the following title : "A ryght pithy, pleasant, 
and merie Comedy, intytuled Gammer Gurton's Nedle; played on the stage 
not longe ago in Christe's Colledge, in Cambridge. Made by Mr. S., master 
of art." As the first comedy in our language, it would demand attention, 
independent of its merit. But it has a sort of merit in its way. It is written 
in rhyme. The humor is broad, familiar, and grotesque. The characters 
are sketched with a strong, though coarse outline, and are to the last con- 
sistently supported. Some of the language, however, and many of the inci- 
dents, are such as give us no very favorable view of the manners of the 
times, when the most learned and polished of the land, the inmates of a 
university, could listen with delight to dialogue often tinctured with phrases 
of the lowest and grossest character, and that, too, written by a prelate. But, 
as a curiosity, we will give the outline of this old piece. 

The characters consist of Diccon, a cunning wag, who lives on stolen bacon 
and mischief; Hodge, a mere bumpkin; Gammer Gurton, and Dame Chat, 
two brawling old wives ; Mas Doctor Rat, an intermeddling priest, who 
would rather run the risk of a broken head than lose a tithe-pig ; and Gib, 
the cat. The plot turns upon the loss of the Gammer's only needle, 

A little thing with an hole in the end, as bright as any siller, 
Small, long, sharp at the point, and straight as any pillar. 

The disaster happens while the dame is mending an article of clothing of 
her man Hodge. In the midst of the operation, Gib, the cat, who is no un- 
important personage in the play, disturbs the Gammer's serenity by making 
a furtive attempt on a pan of milk. The Gammer, in a passion, throws the 
before-mentioned article of apparel at Gib, and that valuable instrument of 
female economy is most unhappily lost. After a fruitless search in all ima- 
ginable places, Diccon, the bedlam, seeing that this affair would afford some 
sport, straightway hies him to Dame Chat, and tells her how Gammer Gur- 
ton has accused her of stealing her poultry. He next applies to the Gammer, 
and vows he saw Dame Chat pick up the needle at the Gammer's door. 
This brings the two old ladies together. The one accuses the other of steal- 
ing her goods, and from words they soon proceed to blows, in which Dame 
Chat comes off victorious. In this extremity the Gammer applies for relief 
to the curate, Doctor Rat. Here again Diccon interposes, and persuades the 
learned ecclesiastic to creep in the silent hour of night into Dame Chat's 
house, when he will see her at work with the aforesaid needle. Meanwhile 
Diccon gives Dame Chat notice that Hodge will that night pay an evil-inten- 
tioned visitation to her poultry. The dame accordingly prepares for his re- 
ception, and instead of the needle, the doctor meets with a door-bar, wielded 
by the masculine hand of the Dame, (who conceives it to be Hodge,) to the 
no small detriment of the said Doctor's skull. To the baily Gammer Gurton 
Las now recourse; when, after a long argument, the author of the mischief is 
discovered, and enjoined a certain ceremony by way of expiation; and as a 

7 



74 ASCHAM. [ELIZABETH, 

preliminary step, gives Hodge a smart thump on a part of his person, that, to 
the recipient's great discomfiture, leads to the detection of the invaluable 
needle, which it seems had been securely lodged in that aforementioned 
article of clothing on which the Gammer had been at work. 

Hodge's preparation for the pursuit of the fugitive needle, and hit; attempt 
to elicit a friendly spark from Gib's eyes to help him to light his candle, is 
described with great humor. 
The Gammer's boy says : — 

Gammer, if ye will laugh, look in but at the door, 

And see how Hodge lieth tombling and tossing amids the floor, 
Raking there, — some fire to find among the ashes dead, 
Where there is not one spark so big as a pin's head : 
At last in a dark corner two sparks he thought he sees, 
Which were indeed nought else, but Gib our cat" s two eyes. 
Puff, quod Hodge, thinking thereby to have fire without doubt ; 
With that Gib shut her two eyes, and so the fire went out ; 
And by and by them opened, even as they were before, 
With that the sparks appeared even as they bad done of yore ; 
And ever as Hodge there blew the fire as he did think, 
Gib, as she felt the blast, straightway began to wink ; 
Till Hodge fell to swearing, as came best to his turn, 
The fire was sure bewitcht, and therefore would not burn : 
At last, Gib up the stairs among the old posts and pins, 
And Hodge he hied him after, till broke were both his shins. 

And so ends the humorous old comedy of Gammer Gurton's Needle. 



ROGER ASCHAM. 1515—1568. 



The name of Roger Ascham deservedly ranks high in English literature. 
He was born in 1515, and took his degree at the University of Cambridge at 
the age of nineteen. 1 That he was pre-eminently skilled in the Greek lan- 
guage, is evident from the fact, that a few years after he left the University he 
was invited by Sir John Cheke to become preceptor of the learned languages to 
Elizabeth ; which office he discharged for two years with great credit and satis- 
faction to himself, as well as to his illustrious pupil. Soon after this, he went 
abroad, and remained about three years in Germany. On his return he was 
selected to fLi the office of Latin secretary to Edward VI., but on the death of 
the king he retired to the University. On the accession of Elizabeth he was 
immediately distinguished, and read with the queen, some hours every day, 

l " Ascham entered Cambridge at a time when the last great revolution of the intellectual world 
was filling every academical mind with ardor or anxiety. The destruction of the Constantinopolitan 
empire, (1453,) had driven the Greeks with their language into the interior parts of Europe, the art 
of printing had made the books easily attainable, and Greek now began to be taught in England. 
The doctrines of Luther had already filled all the nations of the Romish communion with contro- 
versy ar.d dissension. New studies of literature, and new tenets of religion, found employment for 
all who were desirous of truth, or ambitious of fame. Learning was at that time prosecuted with 
that eagerness and perseverance which in this age of indifference and dissipation it is not ->asy to 
conceive. To teach, or to learn, was at once the business and the pleasure of academical life; and 
an emulation of study was raised by Cheke and Smith, to which even the present age perhaps owes 
many advantages, without remembering or knowing its benefactors." Read— Johnson's " Life of 
Abchani," xii. 308, of Murphy's edition. 



1558-1603.] ascham. 75 

in the Latin and Greek languages. In this office, and in that of Latin Secre- 
tary, he continued at court for the remainder of his life. He died in Septem- 
ber, 1568, at the age of fifty-three. 

The two principal works of Ascham are the "Toxophilus" and "The 
School Master." The Toxophilus 1 is, as its name imports, a treatise upon 
archery ; and the main design of Ascham in writing it was to apologize for 
the zeal with which he studied and practised the art of shooting, and to 
show the honor and dignity of the art in all nations and at all times, and its 
acknowledged utility not only in matters of war, but as an innocent and en- 
gaging pastime in times of peace. The whole work is in the dialogue form, 
the speakers being Toxophilus, a lover of archery, and Philologus, a student. 
After a very graceful introduction, Toxophilus proceeds to show that some 
relaxation and pastime are to be mingled with " sadde matters of the minde," 
a position which the studious Philologus endeavors to controvert. 2 

Philologus. — How much is to be given to the authority either 
of Aristotle or Tully, I cannot tell ; this I am sure, which thing 
this fair wheat (God save it) maketh me remember, that those 
husbandmen which rise earliest, and come latest home, and are 
content to have their dinner and other drinkings brought into the 
field to them, for fear of losing of time, have fatter barns in the 
harvest than they which will either sleep at noon time of the day, 
or else make merry with their neighbours at the ale. And so a 
scholar that purposes to be a good husband, and desireth to reap 
and enjoy much fruit of learning, must till and sow thereafter. 
Our best seed time, which be scholars, as it is very timely and 
when we be young, so it endureth not over long, and therefore it 
may not be let slip one hour. 

Toxophilus. — For contrary wise, I heard myself a good hus- 
band at his book once say, that to omit study some time of the 
day, and some cime of the year, made as much for the increase 
of learning, as to let the land lie some time fallow, maketh for the 
better increase of corn. This we see, if the land be ploughed 
every year, the corn cometh thin up ; the ear is short, the grain 
is small, and when it is brought into the barn and threshed, giveth 
very evil faule. 3 So those which never leave poring on their 
books, have oftentimes as thin invention as other poor men have, 
and as small wit and weight in it as in other men's. And thus 
your husbandry, methink, is more like the life of a covetous 
snudge that oft very evil proves, than the labour of a good hus- 
band, that knoweth well what he doth. And surely the best wits 

1 From totem, {ro^ov), "a bow," and pkilns (0iAos), "a friend." The original title runs thus; — 
"Toxophilus, the Schole or Partitions of Shootinge, contayned in II Bookes. Written by Roger 
Ascham 1544, and now newly perused. Pleasaunt for all Gentlemen and Yeomen of Englande, for 
theyr pastime to reade, and profitable for theyr use to followe, both in Warre and Peace." 

2 For an admirable criticism of the works of Roger Ascham, see Retrospective Review, lv. 76 • 
also, Johnson's Life, just quoted from : also, a well-written life in Hartley Coleridge's "Lives of Dis- 
tinguished Northerns." 3 Produce. 



76 ASCHAM. [ELIZABETH, 

to learning must needs have much recreation and easing from their 
book, or else they mar themselves ; when base and dumpish wits 
can never be hurt with continual study ; as ye see in luting, that 
a treble minikin string must always be let down, but at such time 
as when a man needs play, when 1 the base and dull string need- 
eth never to be moved out of his place. 

The work also goes fully into the practical part of the art, so that the 
" Schole for Shootinge" is a complete manual of archery, containing not only 
a learned history of the art, and the highest encomiums on its excellence and 
utility, but likewise the most minute practical details, even down to the 
species of goose from the wing of which the best feathers are to be plucked 
for the shaft. The following is a specimen of his lively, and entertaining 
manner : — 

IN PRAISE OF THE GOOSE. 

ToxopMlus. — Yet well fare the gentle goose, which bringeth 
to a man so many exceeding commodities ! For the goose is 
man's comfort in war and in peace, sleeping and waking. What 
praise soever is given to shooting, the goose may challenge the 
best part of it. How well doth she make a man fare at his table I 
How easily doth she make a man lie in his bed ! How fit, even 
as her feathers be only for shooting, so be her quills for writing. 

Philologus. — Indeed, Toxophile, that is the best praise you 
gave to a goose yet, and surely I would have said you had been 
to blame if you had overskipt it. 

ToxopMlus. — The Romans, I trow, Philologe, not so much be- 
cause a goose with crying saved their capitolium, with their golden 
Jupiter, did make a golden goose, and set her in the top of the 
capitolium, and appointed also the censors to allow, out of the 
common batch, yearly stipends for the finding of certain geese ; 
the Romans did not, I say, give ail this honor to a goose for that 
good deed only, but for other infinite mo, a which come daily to a 
man by geese ; and surely if I should declaim in the praise of 
any manner of beast living, I would choose a goose. But the 
goose hath made us flee too far from our matter. 

But Ascham had another object in writing the Toxophilus: it was with the 
view of presenting to the public a specimen of a purer and more correct 
English style than that to which they had hitherto been accustomed; and 
with the hope of calling the attention of the learned from the exclusive study 
of the Greek and Latin, to the cultivation of their vernacular language. 3 
Consequently, he was one of the first founders of a style truly English in 

1 Whereas. 2 More. 

3 May he not, in his kind and benevolent heart, have had another motive in writing the Toxophi- 
lus, namely, to divert attention of the people from many of the barbarous sports which existed in 
his day. such as bear-baiting; and bull-baiting. It is on record that Queen Elizabeth, soon after she 
ascended the throne, entertained the French ambassadors with bear and bull-baiting, and stood, 
herself, a spectatress of the amusement until six in the evening 1 1 



1558-1603.] ascham. 77 

prose composition ; and was among the first to reject the use of foreign words 
and idioms; a fashion which, in the time of Henry VIII., began to be very 
prevalent. The following is 

HIS APOLOGY FOR WRITING IN ENGLISH. 

If any man would blame me either for taking such a matter in 
hand, or else for writing it in the English tongue, this answer 1 
may make him, that when the best of the realm think it honest 
for them to use, I, one of the meanest sort, ought not to suppose it 
vile for me to write : and though to have written it in another 
tongue had been both more profitable for my study, and also more 
honest for my name, yet I can think my labour well bestowed, if 
with a little hinderance of my profit and name may come any fur- 
therance to the pleasure or commodity of the gentlemen and yeo- 
men of England, for whose sake I took this matter in hand. And 
as for the Latin or Greek tongue, every thing is so excellently 
done in them, that none can do better ; in the English tongue, 
contrary, every thing in a manner so meanly, both for the matter 
and handling, that no man can do worse. For therein the least 
learned, for the most part, have been always most ready to write. 
And they which had least hope in Latin have been most bold in 
English : when surely every man that is most ready to talk is not 
most able to write. He that will write well in any tongue, must 
follow this counsel of Aristotle, to speak as the common people do, 
to think as wise men do : as so should every man understand him, 
and the judgment of wise men allow him. Many English writers 
have not done so, but, using strange words, as Latin, French, and 
Italian, do make all things dark and hard. Once I communed 
with a man which reasoned the English tongue to be enriched and 
increased thereby, saying, Who will not praise that feast where a 
man shall drink at a dinner both wine, ale, and beer? Truly 
(quoth I) they be all good, every one taken by himself alone, but 
if you put malvesye 1 and sack, red wine and white, ale and beer, 
and all in one pot, you shall make a drink not easy to be known, 
nor yet wholesome for the body. 

The other principal work of Roger Ascham is his « School Master." 2 Of 

1 Malmsey. 

2 The title is, "The School Master, or plain and perfect way of teaching children to understand, 
write, and speak the Latin tongue; but specially purposed for the private bringing up of youth in 
gentlemen and noblemen's houses, and commodious also for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, 
and would by themselves, and without a schoolmaster, in short time and with small pains, recover a 
sufficient hability to understand, write, and speak Latin." One of the most curious titles of e'd 
books is the following, which I will give in full for the humor of it. 

" Drinke and Welcome: or the famous Historie of the most part of Drinks in use now in the king- 
domes of Great Brittaine and Ireland : with an especiall declaration of the potency, vertue, and ope- 
ration of our English Ale : With a description of all sorts of Waters, from the Ocean Sea to the 
teares of a Woman. As also, the causes of all sorts of Weather, faire or foule, sleet, raine, haile. 
frost, snow, fogges, mists, vapours, clouds, stormes, windes, thunder and lightning. Compiled first 



78 ASCHAM. [ELIZABETH, 

this, Dr. Johnson says: "It is conceived with great vigor, and finished with 
great accuracy : and perhaps contains the best advice that was ever given 
for the study of languages." He thus recommends an 

INTERMIXTURE OF STUDY AND EXERCISE. 

I would wish, that beside some good time, fitly appointed, and 
constantly kept, to increase by reading the knowledge of the 
tongues, and learning, young gentlemen should use, and delight 
in all courtly exercises, and gentlemanlike pastimes. And good 
cause why : for the self-same noble city of Athens, justly com- 
mended of me before, did wisely, and upon great consideration, 
appoint the muses, Apollo and Pallas, to be patrons of learning to 
their youth. For the muses, besides learning, were also ladies of 
dancing, mirth, and minstrelsy : Apollo was god of shooting, and 
author of cunning playing upon instruments ; Pallas also was 
lady mistress in wars. Whereby was nothing else meant, but that 
learning should be always mingled with honest mirth and comely 
exercises ; and that war also should be governed by learning and 
moderated by wisdom ; as did well appear in those captains of 
Athens named by me before, and also in Scipio and Cassar, the 
two diamonds of Rome. And Pallas was no more feared in 
wearing JEgida, 1 than she was praised for choosing Olivam ; a 
whereby shineth the glory of learning, which thus was governor 
and mistress, in the noble city of Athens, both of war and peace. 

That the schoolmaster was not so well rewarded at this period, notwith- 
standing the high value placed on classical literature, may be drawn from 
the following complaint of Ascham, on 

THE CONSEQUENCES OF NEGLECTED EDUCATION. 

It is pity that, commonly, more care is had, yea, and that among 
very wise men, to find out rather a cunning man for their horse, 
than a cunning man for their children. They say nay in word, 
but they do so in deed. For to the one they will gladly give a 
stipend of two hundred crowns by year, and loth to offer to the 
other two hundred shillings. God, that sitteth in heaven, laugh- 
eth their choice to scorn, and rewardeth their liberality as it 
should ; for he suffereth them to have tame and well-ordered 
horse, but wild and unfortunate children ; and, therefore, in the 
end, they find more pleasure in their horse than comfort in then 
children. 3 



in tne mgn Dutch tongue, by the painefull and industrious Huldricke Van Speagle; a grammatical! 
brewer of Lubeek; and now most learnedly enlarged, amplified, and translated into English prose 
and verse: By John Taylor. London: Printed by Anne Griffin, 1637, 4to." 

1 The .2Bgis, the shield of Minerva. 

2 The olive, which she is said to have produced, and thus had the right to give her name (Athene* 
to Athens. 

3 How true it is, and eve" must be— "a3 ye sow, so shall ye also reap." 



1558-1603.] ascham. 79 

DANGERS OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. 

I know divers noble personages, and many worthy gentlemen 
of England, whom all the syren songs of Italy could never un- 
twine from the mast of God's word ; nor no inchantment of vanity 
overturn them from the fear of God and love of honesty. 

But I know as many, or mo, and some, sometime my dear 
friends, (for whose sake I hate going into that country the more,) 
who, parting out of England fervent in the love of Christ's doc- 
trine, and well furnished with the fear of God, returned out of 
Italy worse transformed than ever was any in Circe's court. I 
know divers, that went out of England men of innocent life, men 
of excellent learning, who returned out of Italy, not only with 
worse manners, but also with less learning ; neither so willing to 
live orderly, nor yet so hable to speak learnedly, as they were at 
home, before they went abroad. * * * * 

But I am afraid that over many of our travellers into Italy do 
not eschew the way to Circe's court, but go, and ride, and run, 
and fly thither ; they make great haste to come to her ; they 
make great suit to serve her ; yea, I could point out some with 
my finger, that never had gone out of England, but only to serve 
Circe in Italy. * * * If you think we judge amiss, and write 
too sore against you, hear what the Italian sayeth of the English- 
man ; what the master reporteth of the scholar, who uttereth 
plainly what is taught by him, and what is learned by you, say- 
ing, Englese Italianato, e ten Diabolo incarnato : that is to say, 
" you remain men in shape and fashion, but become devils in life 
and condition." ****** 

If some do not well understand what is an Englishman Italian- 
ated, I will plainly tell him : " He that by living and travelling 
in Italy, bringeth home into England, out of Italy, the religion, 
the learning, the policy, the experience, the manners of Italy." 
That is to say, for religion, papistry, or worse ; for learning, less 
commonly than they carried out with them ; for policy, a factious 
heart, a discoursing head, a mind to meddle in all men's matters ; 
for experience, plenty of new mischiefs never known in England 
before ; for manners, variety of vanities, and change of filthy lying. 

Then they have in more reverence the triumphs of Petrarch, 
than the Genesis of Moses ; they make more account of Tully's 
Offices, than of St. Paul's Epistles ; of a tale in Boccacio, than a 
story of the Bible. Then they count as fables the holy mysteries 
of Christian religion. They make Christ and his Gospel only 
serve civil policy. Then neither religion cometh amiss to them. 
In time they be promoters of both openly ; in place, again, mockers 
of both privily, as I wrote once in a rude rhyme : 

Now new, now old, now both, now neither ; 

To serve the world's course, they care not with whether. 



80 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETH, 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554—1586. 

" 1 sm> characters," says an able writer, 1 " appear so well fitted to excite 
enlhusirtiuc admiration, as that of Sir Philip Sidney. Uniting all the accom- 
plishments which youthful ardor and universality of talent could acquire or 
bestow ; delighting nations by the witchery of his powers, and courts by the 
fascination of his address; leaving the learned astonished at his proficiency, 
and ;he ladies enraptured with his grace ; and communicating, wherever he 
went, the love and spirit of gladness, he was and well deserved to be the 
idol of the age in which he lived. So rare a union of attraction, so unac- 
customed a concentration of excellence, such a compound of military renown 
with literary distinction, and courtly refinement with noble frankness, gave 
him a passport to every heart, and secured him, at once, universal sympathy 
and esteem." 

He was born in 1554. At the age of thirteen he entered Oxford, and on 
leaving the University, though only eighteen, commenced his travels abroad. 
He was at Paris at the time of the horrible popish massacre of St. Bartholo- 
mew, on the night of the 24th of August, 1572, and took refuge with many 
others at the house of Sir Francis Walsingham, at that time ambassador there 
from England. Leaving Paris soon after, he pursued his route through Ger- 
many and Italy, and returned to England in 1575, at the age of twenty-one. 
He was soon sent by Elizabeth as ambassador to Vienna, where, though so 
young, he acquitted himself with great credit. In 1583 he married the 
daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and was knighted. Two years after- 
wards he was named as a candidate for the throne of Poland ; but his sense 
of the duty which he owed to his country, led him to acquiesce fully in the 
remonstrance of Elizabeth against die proposal, " who," says die historian, 
" refused to further the advancement, out of fear that she should lose the 
jewel of her times." 

The United Provinces having previously declared their independence, 
England resolved to assist them to throw off die yoke of Spain, and in 1586, 
Sidney was sent into the Netherlands, as general of the horse. On the 22d 
of September of that year, in a skirmish near Zutphen, Sidney beat a superior 
force of the enemy, which he casually encountered, but lost his own life. 
After his horse had been shot under him he mounted another, and continued 
to fight till he received his death-wound. The anecdote recorded of him in 
his dying moments, though it has been told a thousand times, must ever be 
repeated when Sidney r s character is considered ; evincing, as it does, cha- 
racteristics infinitely more to be honored and loved than all the glory ever 
acquired in the bloody, and soon, in the progress of Christian sentiment, to be 
considered the disgraceful and wicked work of the battle-field. After he had 
received his death-wound, being overcome with thirst from excessive bleed- 
ing, he called for drink. It was brought to him immediately ; but the mo- 
ment he was lifting it to his mouth, a poor soldier was carried by mortally 
wounded, who fixed his eyes eagerly upon it. Sidney, seeing this, instantly 
delivered it to him, with these memorable words: "Thy necessity is yet 
greater than mine." All England wore mourning for his death, and volumes 
of laments and elegies were poured forth in all languages. 2 

1 see Retrospective Review, ii. 1, and x. 43 ; also the Quarterly, i. 67. 

2 Lord Brook says of him, that "his end was not writing, even while he wrote; nor his knowledge 
moulded for tables or schools ; but both his wit and understanding bent upon his heart to make him- 
self and others, not in words or opinion, but in life and action, good and great." 



1558-1603.] Sidney. 81 

Sir Philip Sidney's literary reputation rests on his two prose works — the 
"Arcadia" and the " Defence of Poesy." He wrote a few sonnets, but though 
they contain much that is truly poetical, they are disfigured by conceits. Thai 
" To Sleep" is the best of them. But his best poetry is his prose ; J and as a 
prose writer he may justly be regarded as the first of his time.2 

The '■ Arcadia" is a mixture of what has been called the heroic ar. 1 the 
pastoral romance. The scene of it is laid in Arcadia, that province of the 
Peloponnesus, celebrated in olden times as the abode of shepherds, and the 
scene of most of the pastoral poetry of Greece. 

Musidorus and Pyrocles are the heroes of the romance, and are united to- 
gether in a firm league of friendship. They go forth in quest of adventures, 
and after killing the customary quantum of giants and monsters, set sail for 
Greece. The ship is wrecked, and Musidorus is thrown upon the shores of 
Laconia. He is seen by two shepherds, who ofier to conduct him to Kalan- 
der, a wealthy inhabitant of Arcadia, the province north of Laconia. As they 
ev f ex into Arcadia, its beautiful appearance strikes the eyes of Musidorus. 

DESCRIPTION OF ARCADIA. 

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with 
stately trees : humble valleys, whose base estate seemed com- 
forted with the refreshing of silver rivers : meadows, enameled 
with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers : thickets, which being lined 
with most pleasant shade were witnessed so too, by the cheerful 
disposition of many well-tuned birds : each pasture stored with 
sheep, feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs with 
bleating oratory craved the dam's comfort : here a shepherd's boy 
piping, as though he should never be old ; there a young shep- 
herdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice 
comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her 
voice-music. 

After being at the house of Kalander a few days, Pyrocles mysteriously 
arrives. The Prince of Arcadia had two daughters, with whom, of course, 
the two young heroes fall in love. The following is a description of their 
characters : — 

PAMELA AND PHILOCLEA. 

The elder is named Pamela, by many men not deemed inferior 
to her sister : for my part, when I marked them both, methought 
there was (if at least such perfections may receive the word of 
more) more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela : 
methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, and threatened in Pa- 
mela's : methought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so per- 
suaded as all hearts must yield ; Pamela's beauty used violence, 

1 Cowper very felicitously calls him a "warbler of poetic prose;" and he himself says, in his " De- 
fence of Poesy," "It is not rhyming and versing that maketh poesy : one may be a poet without 
versing, and a versifier without poetry." 

2 I say this notwithstanding the criticisms of Hazlitt, as ungenerous as they are unjust. See his 
"Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth." 

F 



S2 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETH, 

and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that 
such proportion is between their minds : Philoclea so bashful, as 
though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware : 
so humble, that she will put all pride out of countenance ; in short, 
such proceedings as will stir hope, but teach hope good manners. 
Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing 
her excellencies, but by making that one of her excellencies to be 
void of pride ; her mother's wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I 
can guess aright) knit with a more constant temper. 

The following is 

A DESCRIPTION OF A STAG-HUNT. 

Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertain- 
ing them with pleasant discoursing — how well he loved the sport 
of hunting when he was a young man ; how much in the com- 
parison thereof he disdained ah chamber-delights ; that the sun 
(how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent 
him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, 
dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deers' feeding. 
O, said he, you will never live to my age, without you keep your- 
self in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness ; too 
much thinking doth consume the spirits ; and oft it falls out, that, 
while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect 
of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much 
Arcadia was changed since his youth ; activity and good fellow- 
ship being nothing in the price it was then held in ; but, accord- 
ing to the nature of the old-growing world, still worse and worse. 
Then Would he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known ; 
and so, with pleasant company, beguiled the time's haste, and 
shortened the way's length, till they came to the side of the wood, 
where the hounds were in couples, staying their coming, but with 
a whining accent craving liberty ; many of them in color and 
marks so resembling, that it showed they were of one kind. The 
huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as though 
they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat 
the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a fault, and with 
horns about their necks, to sound an alarm upon a silly fugitive. 
The hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought 
it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the slender 
fortification of his lodging ; but even his feet betrayed him ; for, 
nowsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the 
scent of their enemies, who, one taking it of another, and some- 
times believing the wind's advertisements, sometimes the view of 
(their faithful counsellors) the huntsmen, with open mouths then 
denounced war, when the war was already begun. Their cry 
being composed of so well-sorted mouths, that any man wmld 



1558-1603.] Sidney. 83 

perceive therein some kind of proportion, but the skilful woodmen 
did find a music. Then delight and variety of opinion drew the 
horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and 
horn, kept still, as it were, together. The wood seemed to con- 
spire with them against his own citizens, dispersing their noise 
through all his quarters ; and even the nymph Echo left to he- 
wail the loss of Narcissus, and became a hunter. Bat the stag 
was in the end so hotly pursued, that, leaving bis flight, he was 
driven to make courage of despair ; and so turning his head, made 
the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay : 
as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to 
a parley. 

After passing through many severe trials of their love, the two princesses 
are married to Musidorus and Pyrocles, and so ends the " Arcadia." 

The other great work of Sir Philip Sidney is his " Defence of Poesy," 
which may be truly pronounced to be the most beautiful as well as the most 
truthful essay upon the subject in our language, and one from which many 
have borrowed, without acknowledging their obligations. 1 "It may be 
regarded as a logical discourse, from beginning to end, interspersed here and 
there with a few of the more flowery parts of eloquence, but everywhere 
keeping in view the main objects, indeed, of all logic and eloquence — proof 
and persuasion. It is evidently the result of deep conviction in the mind of 
the writer, and a strong desire to impress that conviction upon others : to im- 
press it, however, in a manner that shall render it not merely a sentiment of 
the heart, but a settled belief of the reason and judgment." 2 In what a skill- 
ful and highly eloquent manner does he contrast « Poesy" with all the other 
arts and sciences, in his 

CHARACTER OF THE POET. 

There is no art delivered to mankind, that hath not the works 
of nature for its principal object, without which they could not 
consist, and on which they so depend, as they become actors and 
players, as it were, of what nature will have set forth. So doth 
the astronomer look upon the stars, and by that he seeth, set down 
what order nature hath taken therein. So doth the geometrician 
and arithmetician, in their divers sorts of quantities. So doth the 
musician, in tunes tell you which by nature agree, which not. 
The natural philosopher thereon hath his name, and the moral 
philosopher standeth upon the natural virtues, vices, or passions 
of man : And follow nature, saith he, therein, and you shall not 
err. The lawyer saith what men have determined: the historian, 
what men have done. The grammarian speaketh only of the 
rales of speech, and the rhetorician and logician, considering 



1 "The great praise of Sidney in this treatise is, that he has shown the capacity of the English lan- 
guage for spirit, variety, gracious idiom, and masculine firmness." Read— Hallam's " Introduction. 
to the Literature of Europe." 2 Retrospective Review, x. 45. 



84 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETH, 

what in nature will soonest prove and persuade, thereon give arti- 
ficial rules, which are still compassed within the circle of a ques- 
tion, according to the proposed matter. The physician weigheth 
the nature of man's body, and the nature of things hurtful or help- 
ful to it. And the metaphysic, though it be in the second and 
abstract notions, and therefore be counted supernatural, yet doth 
he indeed build upon the depth of nature. 

Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, 
lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, doth grow, in effect, 
into another nature ; in making things either better than nature 
bringeth forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in nature, 
as the heroes, demigods, cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such like, 
so as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not encJosed within the 
narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging within the zodiac of 
his own wit. Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry 
as divers poets have done ; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruit- 
ful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make 
the too-much-loved earth more lovely : her world is brazen, the 
poets only deliver a golden. Neither let it be deemed too saucy a 
comparison, to balance the highest point of man's wit with the 
efficacy of nature ; but rather give right honor to the heavenly 
Maker of that maker ^ who, having made man to his own like- 
ness, set him beyond and over all the works of that second nature, 
which in nothing he showed so much as in poetr)? - — when, with 
he force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth surpassing 
her doings ; with no small arguments to the incredulous of that 
first accursed fall of Adam. — Since our erect wit maketh us know 
what perfection is, and yet our infected will keepeth us from 
reaching unto it. 

Again, he contrasted! the Philosopher, the Historian, and the Poet: 2 — 

The philosopher, therefore, and the historian are they which 
would win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example ; 
but both, not having both, do both halt. For the philosopher, sit- 
ting down with the thorny arguments, the bare rule is so hard of 
utterance, and so misty to be conceived, that one that hath no 
other guide but him shall wade in him until he be old, before he 
shall find sufficient cause to be honest. For his knowledge stand- 



1 The word poet means maker, being from the Greek non/T^s, (poietes) " a maker," "a poet." Hence 
Warton remarks, "The man of rhymes maybe easily found; but the genuine poet, of a lively, plastic 
Imagination, the true maker or creator, is so uncommon a prodigy, that one is almost tempted to 
subscribe to the opinion of Sir William Temple, who says, that of all the numbers of mankind that 
live "vithin the compass of a thousand years, for one man that is born capable of making a great 
poet, there may be a thousand Dorn capable of making as great generals, or ministers of state, as 
the most lenowned in story." — Essay on Pope, i. ill. 

2 One cannot fail to see many of these same ideas in the first lecture of that most instructive book, 
Bishop Lowth's "Lectures on Hebrew Poetry." 



1558-1603.] Sidney. 85 

eth so upon the abstract and general, that happy is that man who 
may understand him, and more happy that c^n apply what he 
doth understand. On the other side, the historian, wanting the 
precept, is so tied, not to what should be, but to what is — to the 
particular truth of things, and not the general reason of things — 
that his example draweth not necessary consequence, and there- 
fore a less fruitful doctrine. Now doth the peerless poet perform 
both ; for whatsoever the philosopher saith should be done, he 
giveth a perfect picture of it, by some one by whom he pre-sup- 
poseth it was done ; so as he coupleth the general notion with the 
particular example. A perfect picture, I say, — for he yieldeth to 
the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the philosopher 
bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth neither strike, 
pierce, nor possess the sight of the soul, so much as that other 
doth. — So, no doubt, the philosopher with his learned definitions, 
be it of virtues or vices, matters of public policy or private govern- 
ment, replenisheth the memory with many infallible grounds of 
wisdom, which, notwithstanding, lie dark before the imaginative 
and judging power, if they be not illuminated and figured forth 
by the speaking picture of poesy. Tully taketh much pains, and 
many times not without poetical helps, to make us know what 
force the love of our country hath in us : let us but hear old An- 
chises, speaking in the midst of Troy's flames ; or see Ulysses, in 
the fulness of all Calypso's delights, bewailing his absence from 
barren and beggarly Ithaca ! Anger, the Stoics said, was a short 
madness ; let but Sophocles bring you Ajax on a stage, killing or 
whipping sheep and oxen, thinking them the army of the Greeks, 
with their chieftains Agamemnon and Menelaus ; and tell me if 
you have not a more familiar insight into anger than finding in the 
schoolmen its genus and difference? The philosopher teacheth, 
but he teacheth obscurely, so as the learned only can understand 
him ; that is to say, he teacheth them that are already taught. 
But the poet is the food for tender stomachs ; the poet is indeed 
the right popular philosopher. 

After having gone through many particulai comparisons, he thus comes out 
with a fine burst of enthusiasm 

IN PRAISE OF POETRY. 

Now therein — (that is to say, the power of at once teaching 
and enticing to do well) — now therein, of all sciences — I speak 
still of human and according to human conceit — is our poet the 
monarch. For he doth not only show the way, but giveth so 
sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice an}r man to enter 
int< it. Nay, he doth, as if your journey should lie through a 
far vineyard, at the very first give you a cluster of grapes, that, 
full of that taste, you may long to pass further. He begin neth 

8 



86 SIDNEY. [ELIZABETIT, 

not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margent with 
interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness ; but he 
cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either ac- 
companied with, or prepared for, the well-enchanting skill of 
music ; and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you with a tale 
which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney- 
corner ; 1 and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the 
mind from wickedness to virtue, even as the child is often brought 
to take most wholesome things, by hiding them in such other as 
have a pleasant taste. For even those hard-hearted evil men, who 
think virtue a school name, and know no other good but indulgere 
genio, 2 and therefore despise the austere admonitions of the phi- 
losopher, and feel not the inward reason they stand upon, yet will 
be content to be delighted ; which is all the good-fellow poet seems 
to promise ; and so steal to see the form of goodness — which, seen, 
they cannot but love ere themselves be aware, as if they had taken 
a medicine of cherries. By these, therefore, examples and rea- 
sons, I think it may be manifest that the poet, with that same 
hand of delight, doth draw the mind more effectually than any 
other art doth. And so a conclusion not unfitly ensues, that as 
virtue is the most excellent resting-place for all worldly learning 
to make an end of, so poetry, being the most familiar to teach it, 
and most princely to move towards it, in the most excellent work 
is the most excellent workman. 

Since, then, poetry is of all human learning the most ancient, 
and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence other learnings 
have taken their beginnings ; — Since it is so universal that no 
learned nation doth despise it, no barbarous nation is without it ; — 
Since both Roman and Greek gave such divine names unto it, 
the one of prophesying, the other of making ; and that, indeed, 
that name of making "is fit for it, considering that whereas all 
other arts retain themselves within their subject, and receive, as 
it were, their being from it, — the poet, only, bringeth his own stuff, 
and doth not learn a conceit out of the matter, but maketh matter 
for a conceit ; — Since, neither his description nor end containing 
any evil, the thing described cannot be evil ; — Since his effects be 
so good as to teach goodness and delight the learners of it ; — 
Since therein (namely, in moral doctrine, the chief of all know- 
ledge) he doth not only far pass the historian, but, for instructing, 
is well nigh comparable to the philosopher, and for moving, leav- 

1 We have here, undoubtedly, the origin of Shakspeare's — 

That aged ears play truant at his tales, 

And younger hearings are quite ravished,— 

So sweet and voluble is his discourse, &c. 

Love's labor Lost, Act ii. Scene 1 
1 To Indulge one's appetite. 



1558-1603.] marlow. 87 

eth him behind ; — Since the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no 
uncleanness) hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our 
Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it ; — Since all its 
kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their severed dis- 
sections fully commendable : — I think — [and I think I think 
rightly) — the laurel crown appointed for triumphant captains, 
doth worthily, of all other learnings, honor the poet's triumph. 

V V SONNET 1 TO SLEEP. 

Come, sleep, sleep, the certain knot of peace, 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 

Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ! 

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : 

make me in those civil wars to cease ! 

J will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed; 

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 

A rosy garland, and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine by right, . 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 

Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. 1562—1592. 

Christopher Marlow 2 was a contemporary with Shakspeare, and cele- 
brated in his day as an actor and dramatic writer. He wrote seven tragedies, 
one of which, Doctor Fauslus, has considerable merit. 3 But he was a man of 
loose principles and morals, and came to a tragical end, being killed in a 
drunken brawl. He is now chiefly known as the author of the beautiful song 
quoted by honest old Izaak Walton, entitled 

A PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

Come live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That grove or valley, hill or field, 
Or wood and steepy mountain yield. 

x The sonnet is a short poem of fourteen lines, two stanzas of four verses each, and two of three 
each, the rhymes being adjusted by a particular rule. It was first introduced into our language by 
the Earl of Surrey, and continued to be a favorite species of writing till the Restoration, when it 
began to decline. Within the present century, however, it has "°vived, and has been rendered pooi'- 
lar by a series of distinguished writers, especially by Mr. Wordsworth. Read— " Specimens of Eng- 
lish Sonnets," by Rev. Alexander Dyce, — a little book of gems. 

2 He was generally called Kit Maiiow, according to old Hey wood :— 

Marlow, renown'd for his rare art and wit, 
Could ne'er attain beyond the name of Kit. 

3 Road— two articles in the 3d and 4th volumes of the Retrospective Review, on 'The Early Eng- 
lish Drama :" also, Lamb's " Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets." 



88 SOUTHWELL. [ELIZABETIT, 



Where we will sit on rising rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 1 

Pleased will I make thee beds of roses, 
And twine a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers and rural kirtle, 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle . 

A jaunty 2 gown of finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pnll ; 
And shoes lined choicely for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold : 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
If these, these pleasures can thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 1562—1595. 

Robert Sotjthwexx was descended from an ancient and respectable ca 
tholic family in Norfolk, and was born about the year 1562. At an early age 
he was sent to the English College at Douay, 3 and thence he went to Rome 
where he entered the " Order of the Society of Jesus." After finishing his 
course of study there, the Pope sent him, in 1584, as a missionary to England. 
He had not been at home but a few years when he was apprehended by 
some of Elizabeth's agents, for being engaged in a conspiracy against the 
government. He was sent to prison, where he remained three years. He 
was repeatedly put vipon the rack, and, as he himself affirmed, underwent 
very severe tortures no less than ten times. Wearied with torture and soli- 
tary imprisonment, he begged that he might be brought to trial, to answer for 
himself. At his trial he owned that he was a priest and a Jesuit, but denied 
that he ever entertained any designs against the queen or kingdom ; alleging 
that he came to England simply to administer the sacraments according to the 
catholic church to such as desired them. The jury found him guilty of trea- 
son, and when asked if he had any thing to say why sentence should not be 
pronounced against him, he replied, " Nothing ; but from my heart I forgive 
all who have been any way accessible to my death." Sentence was pro- 
nounced, and the next day he was led to execution. 4 

1 A madrigal is a little amorous poem, of free and unequal verses, differing from the regularity of 
the sonnet and the subtilty of the epigram, and containing some tender and simple thought suita- 
bly expressed. 2 Showy. 

3 In the northernmost province of France, where was made the celebrated papal version of the 
Scriptures— the " Douay Bible." 

4 The best account of Southwell may be found in the " Gentleman's Magazine" for Nov. 1798. 
Read, also, an excellent article in the Retrospective Review, iv. 267. " So perished father Southwell, 
at thirty-three years of age; and so, unhappily, have perished many of the wise and virtuous of the 
rarth. Conscious of suffering in the supposed best of causes, he seems to have met death without 
terror. Life's uncertainty and the world's vanity, the crimes and follies of humanity, and the con- 



1558-1603.] Southwell. 89 

This whole proceeding should cover the authors of it with everlasting in- 
famy. It is a foul stain upon the garments of the maiden queen that she can 
never wipe off. There was not a particle of evidence at his trial that this 
pious and accomplished poet meditated any evil designs against the govern- 
ment. He did what he had a perfect right to do; ay, what it was his duty 
to do, if he conscientiously thought he was right, — endeavor to make converts 
to his faith, so far as he could without interfering with the rights of others. 
If there be any thing that is to be execrated, it is persecution for opinion's 
sake. There is an excess of meanness, as well as wickedness, in striving to 
put down opinions by physical force. Those who do it thereby tacitly ac- 
knowledge that they have no other arguments, for truth has no reason ever to 
fear in any combat with error. 1 

Southwell's poems are all on moral and religious subjects. Though they 
have not many of the endowments of fancy, they are peculiarly pleasing for 
the simplicity of their diction, and especially for the fine moral truths and 
lessons they convey. 

TIMES GO BY TURNS. 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 

The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: 

Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow, 

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb : 
Her tides have equal times to come and go ; 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ■ 
No joy so great but runneth to an end, 
No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring ; 

Not endless night, yet not eternal day: 
The saddest birds a season find to sing, 

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. 
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, 
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost ; 

That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd ; 

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. 
Unmingled joys here to no man befall ; 
Who least, hath some ; who most, hath never all. 

solations and glories of religion, are the constant themes of his writings, both in prose and verse, 
and the kindliness and benignity of his nature, and the moral excellence of his character are dif- 
fused alike over both." 

1 Truth crush'd to earth shall rise again, 
The eternal years of God are hers; 
But error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies amid his worshippers.— Brya if. 

8* 



90 SOUTHWELL. [ELIZABETH, 



SCORN NOT THE LEAST. 

Where wards are weak, and foes encountering stron 
Where mightier do assault than do defend, 

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, 

And silent sees that speech could not amend : 

Yet, higher powers must think, though they repine, 

When sun is set the little stars will shine. 

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly, 
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish : 

Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by, 
These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish ; 

There is a time even for the worms to creep, 

And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep. 

Trie merlin cannot ever soar on high, 

Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase ; 

The tender lark will find a time to fly, 
And fearful hare to run a quiet race. 

He that high growth on cedars did bestow, 

Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow. 

In Hainan's pomp poor Mordocheus wept, 
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe. 

The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept, 
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go. 

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May; 

Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away. 

CONTENT AND RICH. 

My conscience is my crown ; 

Contented thoughts, my rest ; 
My heart is happy in itself, 

My bliss is hi my breast. 

Enough I reckon wealth ; 

That mean, the surest lot, 
That lies too high for base contempt, 

Too low for envy's shot. 

My wishes are but few, 

All easy to fulfil : 
I make the limits of my power 

The bounds unto my will. 

I fear no care for gold, 

Well-doing is my wealth ; 
My mind to me an empire is, 

While grace affordeth health. 

I clip high-climbing thoughts, 
The wings of swelling pride ; 

Their fall is worst that from the height 
Of greatest honor slide. 



1558-1603.] Southwell. 91 

Since sails of largest size 

The storm doth soonest tear, 
I bear so low and small a sail 

As freeth me from fear. 

I wrestle not with rage 

While fury's flame doth burn; 
It is in vain to stop the stream 

Until the tide doth turn. 

But when the flame is out, 

And ebbing wrath doth end, 
I turn a late enraged foe 

Into a quiet friend. 

And taught with often proof, 

A temper'd calm I find 
To be most solace to itself, 

Best cure for angry mind. 

Spare diet is my fare, 

My clothes more fit than fine ; 
I know I feed and clothe a foe, 

That pamper'd would repine. 

I envy not their hap 

Whom favor doth advance ; 
I take no pleasure in their pain 

That have less happy chance. 

To rise by others' fall 

I deem a losing gain ; 
All states with others' ruin built 

To ruin run amain. 

No change of Fortune's calm 

Can cast my comforts down : 
When Fortune smiles, I smile to think 

How quickly she will frown. 

And when, in froward mood, 

She proved an angry foe, 
Small gain, I found, to let her come — 

Less loss to let her go. 

But the prose of Southwell is no less charming than his poetry, as me fol- 
lowing beautiful extracts will fully show : — 

MARY 

Bat fear not, Blessed Mary, for thy tears will obtain. They 
are too mighty orators to let thy suit fall ; and though they pleaded 
at the most rigorous bar, yet have they so persuading a silence 

1 This goes upon the supposition that the " woman that was a sinner," whose act of love to the 
Saviour is recorded in Luke vii. 37—50, was Mary Magdalene ; but of this there is not only no proof, 
put very little probability. 



92 SOUTHWELL. [ELIZABETH, 

and so conquering a complaint, that, by yielding, they overcome, 
and, by entreating, they command. They tie the tongues of all 
accusers, and soften the rigor of the severest judge. Yea, they 
win the invincible a'nd bind the omnipotent. When they seem 
most pitiful they have greatest power, and being most forsaken 
they are more victorious. Repentant eyes are the cellars of an- 
gels, and penitent tears their sweetest wines, which the savor of 
life perfumeth, the taste of grace sweeteneth, and the purest color 
of returning innocency highly beautifieth. This dew of devotion 
never faileth, but the sun of justice draweth it up, and upon what 
face soever it droppeth, it maketh it amiable in God's eye. For 
this water hath thy heart been long a limbeck, sometimes distill- 
ing it out of the weeds of thy own offences with the fire of true 
contrition ; sometimes out of the flowers of spiritual comforts with 
the flames of contemplation ; and now out of the bitter herbs of 
thy master's miseries with the heat of a tender compassion. This 
water hath better graced thy looks than thy former alluring glances. 
It hath settled worthier beauties in thy face than all thy artificial 
paintings. Yea, this only water hath quenched God's anger, 
qualified his justice,? recovered his mercy, merited his love, pur- 
chased his pardon, and brought forth the spring qf all thy favor. 
* * * Till death dam up the springs, thy tears shall never 
cease running ; and then shall thy soul be ferried in them to the 
harbor of life, that, as by them it was first passed from sin to grace, 
so, in them it may be wafted from grace to glory. 

LIFE HATH NO "UNMEDDLED" JOY. 

There is in this world continual interchange of pleasing and 
greeting accidence, still keeping their succession of times, and 
overtaking each other in their several courses ; no picture can be 
all drawn of the brightest colors, nor a harmony consorted only of 
trebles ; shadows are needful in expressing of proportions, and the 
bass is a principal part in perfect music ; the condition here al- 
loweth no unmeddled joy; our whole life is temperate between 
sweet and sour, and we must all look for a mixture of both : the 
wise so wish : better that they still think of worse, accepting the 
one if it come with liking, and bearing the other without impa- 
tience, being so much masters of each other's fortunes, that neither 
shall work them to excess. The dwarf groweth not on the high- 
est hill, nor the tall man loseth not his height in the lowest valley ; 
and as a base mind, though most at ease, will be dejected, so a 
lesohite virtue in the deepest distress is most impregnable. 



1558-1603.] spbnser. 93 

/*< 

EDMUND SPENSER. 1553—1599. 

tiif 

Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget, 
The gentle Spenser, Fancy's pleasing son, 
Who, like a copious river, pour'd his song 
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground. 

Thomson. 

Edmttnd Spen'Sek, 1 the illustrious author of the "Faerie Queene," was born 
in London, 1553. Of his parentage little is known. "The nobility of the 
Spensers," says Gibbon, " has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies 
of Marlborough : but I exhort them to consider the Faerie Queen as the most 
precious jewel of their coronet." But his parents were undoubtedly poor, as 
he entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, 1569, as a sizar. 2 After taking his 
master's degree in 1578. he went to reside with some relations in the north 
of England. He remained there but a short time, for in the latter part of the 
same year he went to London, and published his " Shepherd's Kalendar," a 
series of twelve eclogues, named after the twelve months of the year. It gave 
him great reputation at the time as a pastoral poet, 3 for it contains many 
spirited and beautiful passages : but it was written in a language even then 
too obsolete, and could not have been understood without a commentary. It 
soon, therefore, lost its popularity, and is now but little read. In the summer 
of 1580 he went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Grey, who had been ap- 
pointed lord lieutenant. On that nobleman's being recalled in 1582, the poet 
returned with him to England, and in 1586 received a grant of 3028 acres of 
land forfeited to the crown, as a reward for his services, provided he would 
return to Ireland to cultivate them. He accepted the conditions. The Castle 
of Kilcolman, in the county of Cork, was his residence ; and the river Mulla. 
which he frequently mentions in his poems, flowed through his grounds. 
Here he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh, whom he styles " the Shepherd 
of the Ocean," with whom he had become acquainted during his former resi- 
dence in Ireland. He persuaded the poet to accompany him to England, and 
by him he was presented to Queen Elizabeth, an event which he celebrates 
in his poem, entitled " Colin Clouts come Home againe." 

"Raleigh's visit," remarks Mr. Campbell, 4 "occasioned the first resolution 
of Spenser to prepare the first books of < The Faerie Queene' for immediate 
publication. Spenser has commemorated this interview, and the inspiring 
influence of Raleigh's praise, under the figurative description of two shep- 
herds tuning their pipes beneath the alders of the Mulla — a fiction with which 
the mind, perhaps, will be much less satisfied, than by recalling the scene as 
it really existed. When we conceive Spenser reciting his compositions tc 
Raleigh, in a scene so beautifully appropriate, the mind casts a pleasing re- 
trospect over that influence which the enterprise of the discoverer of Virginia, 

1 The works of Spenser are now made accessible to every one, in that beautiful Boston edition, 1m 
five volumes, edited by G. S. Hillard, Esq. 

2 That is, a " charity student." They had certain allowance made in then college bills, and received 
that name from the size, as it was called, or portion of bread, meat, Sec. allotted lo a student. 

3 Drayton says, "Master Edmund Spenser had done enough for the immortality of his name had 
he only given us his Shepherd's Kalendar, a masterpiece, if any." 

4 " Specimens of British Poets," ii. 173. A second edition of this valuable work has lately been 
republished in one large octavo. Read, parti ;ularly, the "Essay on English Poetry," precediufc 
the extracts. 



H SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, 

md the genius of the author of ' The Faerie Queene,' have respectively pro- 
duced on the fortune and language of England. The fancy might even be 
pardoned for a momentary superstition, that the genius of their country 
aovered, unseen, over their meeting, casting her first look of regard on the 
poet that was destined to inspire her future Milton, and the other on the 
•naritime hero who paved die way for colonizing distant regions of the earth, 
iVhere the language of England was to be spoken, and the poetry of Spenser 
o be admired." 

In 1590 Spenser published the first three books of "The Faerie Queene,' 
»nd in 1591, he received a pension of £50 a year from Queen Elizabeth. 
The favorable manner in which " The Faerie Queene" was received, induced 
ihe publisher to collect and print the author's minor poems, which may be 
found in the editions of his works. In 1595 the second part of "The Faerie 
Queene," consisting of three more books, appeared. The poet intended to 
complete the work in twelve books, and it is said that the last six were lost 
On his way from Ireland to England. But of this there is no proof, and 
scarcely any probability. " It is much more likely," says Mr. Hillard, " that 
{he sorrows and misfortunes which clouded the last three years of the poet's 
life, deprived him of botii the will and the power to engage in poetical com- 
position." In September, 1598, the rebellion of O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, drove 
him and his family from Kilcolman. In the confusion of flight, one of the 
poet's children was unfortunately left behind, and perished in the house, 
which was burnt by the rebels. He arrived in England, harassed by these 
misfortunes, and died in London on the 16th of January, 1599, at the age of 
forty-five, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Thus died Spenser, at the early age of forty-five. But how little is there of 
the great and good that can die ! He still lives, to delight, to charm, to in- 
struct mankind. He still lives, and, as far as his writings are read, lives to 
exert the most salutary influence in inspiring a love for the just, die beautiful, 
the true ; in purging the soul from the grovelling propensities and . ppetites 
that continually clog it here, and in filling it with ardent aspirations for those 
high and holy things that claim kindred with its origin. 1 

Had Spenser never written "The Faerie Queene," many of his minor 
poems, and especially his " Divine Hymns," would have given him a high, 
a very high rank in English literature. But " The Faerie Queene," from its 
unequalled richness and beauty, has thrown the rest of his writings compara- 
tively into the shade. Two things, however, have prevented its being gene- 
rally read ; one is its antiquated diction, and the other its allegorical character. 
The latter " has been" (remarks Mr. Hillard) " a kind of bugbear — a vague 
image of terror brooding over it, and deterring many from ever attempting its 
perusal. To borrow a lively expression of Hazlitt's, ' they are afraid of the 
allegory, as if they thought it would bite them.' But though it be an allegorical 
poem, it is only so to a certain extent and to a limited degree. The interest 
which the reader feels is a warm, flesh-and-blood interest, not in the delinea- 
tion of a virtue, but in the adventures of a knight or lady. It is Una — the 
trembling, tearful woman — for whom our hearts are moved with pity, and not 
forsaken Truth. We may fairly doff the allegory aside, and let it pass, and 



1 I would earnestly recommend to the reader's attention the "Introductory Observations on the 
Faerie Queen," by Mr. Hillaid, prefixed to the edition just, spoken of. They are written with that 
discriminating taste, justness of thought, and felicity of style, which characterize all his writings. 
H^ad, also, an excellent article on Spenser in the 2d vol. of D'Israeli's "Amenities of Literature:" 
also, some very just critical remarks in Hallam's "Literature of Europe 



1558-1603. J spenser. 95 

the poem will lose little or noti^-ig of its charm. The grand procession of 
stately and beautiful forms, the chivalrous glow, the stirring adventures, the 
noble sentiments, the picturesque descriptions, the delicious poetry, would all 
be left unimpaired." 

The poet, in a letter to Sir Walter Raleigh, gives the plan of his work. 
" The general end of all the book," he says, " is to fashion a gentleman or 
noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline." He takes the history of King 
Arthur, " as most fit for the excellency of his person," whom he conceives 
to have seen in a vision the Faerie Queene, " with whose excellent beauty 
ravished, he awaking resolved to seek her out." By tnis Faerie Queene, 
GloriarM, he means Glory in general, but in particular, her majesty, Queen 
Elizabeth; and by Faerie Land, her kingdom. So in Prince Arthur he sets 
forth Magnificence or Magnanimity, for « that is the perfection of all the rest, 
and containeth in it them all; therefore," he says, "in the whole course I 
mention the deeds of Arthur applicable to that virtue which I write of in that 
book." 

Of the twelve books he makes or intended to make twelve knights the 
patrons, each of twelve several virtues. The first, the knight of the Red 
Cross, expressing Holiness : the second, Sir Guyon, or Temperance: the third, 
Br tomartis, a "Lady Knight," in whom he pictures Chastity: the fourth, 
V. asnbell and Triamond, or Friendship : the fifth, Artegal, or Justice: the sixth, 
Sir Calodore, or Courtesy : what the other six books would have been, we 
have no means of knowing. The first canto of the first book thus opens : — 

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 
I. 

A gentle Knight 1 was pricking on the plaine, 

Ycladd 2 in mightie armes and silver shielde, 

Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 

The cruel markes of many : a bloody fielde ; 

Yet armes till that time did he never wield : 

His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 

As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 

Full iolly 3 knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, 
As one for knightly giusts 4 and fierce encounters fitt. 
ii. 

And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 

The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 

For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 

And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 

Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 

For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had. 

Right, faifiifull, true he was in deede and word ; 

But of his cheere 5 did seeme too solemne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 6 

1 A gentle Knight.— Spenser comes at once to the action of the poem, and describes the Red-cross 
knight as having already entered upon the adventure assigned him by the Faerie Queene, which -was 
to slay the dragon which laid waste the kingdom of Una's father. The rted-cross knight is St. Geoige 
the patron saint of England, and represents holiness or Christian purity, and is clothed in the "whole 
armor of God," described by St. Paul in the sixth chapte.' of the Epistle to the Ephesians. 

2 Ynladd — clad. 3 Iolly— handsome. 4 Giusts— tournaments 
6 Cheere— air, or mien. 6 Ydrad- -dreaded. 



96 SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, 

in. 

Upon a great adventure he was bond, 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
(That greatest glorious queene of Faerie lond,) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave : 
And ever, as he rode, his hart did earne 1 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; 
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. 



A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white then snow: 
Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that whimpled 2 was full low; 
And over all a blacke stole shee did throw: 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had; 
And by her in a line a milke-white lamb she lad. 



So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
She was in life and every vertuous lore; 
And by descent from royall lynage came 
Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held; 
Till that infernal Feend with foule uprore 
Forwasted 3 all their land, and them expeld; 
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld. 



Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last, 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 
And angry love an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans lap so fast, 
That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves- were fain. 4 



Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, 
Not perceable with power of any starr: 
And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 

i Earne— yearn. 2 Whimpled— gathered, or plaited. 

8 Forwasted — much wasted. The prefix for is an intensive, from the Saxon and German 

» Fain— glad 



1558-1603.] spensbr. 97 

With footing worne, and leading inward farr: 
Faire harbour that them seems; so in they entred ar. 

Till. 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, 
Ioying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruel 1 sky. 
Much can they praise 1 the trees so straight and hy, 
The sayling pine; the cedar proud and tall; 
The vine-propp elme ; the poplar never dry; 
The builder oake, sole king of forrests all ; 
The aspine good for staves; the cypresse funerall; 

IX. 

The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 

And poets sage ; the firre that weepeth still ; 

The willow, worne of forlorne paramours ; 

The eugh, 2 obedient to the benders will ; 

The birch for shaftes; the sallow for the mill; 

The mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound ; 

The warlike beech ; the ash for nothing ill ; 

The fruitfull olive ; and the platane round ; 
The carver holme ; the maple seeldom inward sound. 
x. 

Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 

Untill the blustering storme is overblowne ; 

When, weening to returne whence they did stray, 

They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 

But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, 

Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, 

That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne : 

So many pathes, so many turnings seene, 
That, which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. 

UNA FOLLOWED BY THE LION. 



Nought 3 is there under heaven's wide hollownesse 
That moves more deare compassion of mind, 
Then beautie brought t' unworthie wretchednesse 
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes unkind. 
I, whether lately through her brightnes .blynd, 
Or through allegeance, and fast fealty, 
Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 
When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. 
ii. 
And now it is empassioned 4 so deepe, 
For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 

1 Can they praise— Much they praised. This form of expression is frequently used by f'nenser. 
Some, however, consider 'can' to be put for < gan,' or 'began. 2 Eugh— yew. 

3 Nought, &c. In this canto the adventures of Una are resumed, from the ninth stanza of the pre 
ctding canto. i Empassioned— moved. 

G y 



98 SPENSER. [ELIZABTEH, 

That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe, 
To think how she through guyleful handeling, 
Though true as touch, 1 though daughter of a king, 
Though faire as ever living wight was fayrc, 
Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, 
Is from her Knight divorced in despayre. 
And her dew loves deryv'd 2 to that vyle Witches shayre, 

in. 

Yet she, most faithfull Ladie, all this while 
Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd, 
Far from all peoples preace, 3 as in exile, 
In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd, 
To seeke her Knight ; who, subtily betrayd 
Through that late vision which th' Enchaunter wrought, 
Had her abandond : She, of nought afirayd, 
Through woods and wastness wide him daily sought, 
Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. 



One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, 
From her unhastie beast she did alight ; 
And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay 
In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight ; 
From her fayro head her fillet she undight, 4 
And layd her stole aside: Her angels face, 
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
And make a sunshine in the shady place ; 
Did ever mortall eye behold such heavenly grace 1 

v. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lyon 5 rushed suddeinly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : 
Soone as the royall Virgin he did spy, 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
To have attonce devourd her tender corse : 
But to the pray when as he drew more ny, 
His bloody rage as waged with remorse, 
And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. 

VI. 

Instead thereof he kist her wearie feet, 

And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong; 

As 6 he her wronged innocence did weet. 7 

O how can beautie maister the most strong, 

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 

Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, 

Still dreading death, when she had marked long, 

1 Tnie as touch— i. e. true as the touchstone by which other substances are tried. 

2 Deryv'd — transferred. 3 Preace— press or throng. * Undight— took off. 

6 A ramping lyon.— Upton conjectures the lion to be the English monarch, the defender of the 
faith. He seems rather to represent a manly and courageous people, like the English, and the homage 
he pays to Una betokens the respect which would be felt by such a people to beauty and innocence. 

Ad— as u. 7 Weet— understand. 



1558-1603.] spenser. 99 

Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 
And drizling teai-es did shed for pure affection. 

VII. 

" The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 
Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate, 
And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, 
Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late 
Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate : — 
But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, 
How does he find in cruell hart to hate 
Her, that him lov'd, and ever most adord 
As the god of my life ? why hath he me abhord ?" 

VIII. 

Redounding 1 tears did choke th' end of her plaint, 
Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood; 
And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint, 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood, 
At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, 
Arose the Virgin borne of heavenly brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, 
To seek her strayed Champion if she might attayne. 

IX. 

The lyon would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong gard 
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard : 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward ; 
And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, 
With humble service to her will prepard : 
From her fayre eyes he took commandement, 
And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 

Book I. Canto III. 

DESCRIPTION OF PRINCE ARTHUR. 
XXIX. 

At last she chaunced by good hap to meet 
A goodly Knight, 2 faire marching by the way, 
Together with his Squyre, arrayed meet : 
His glitterand armour shined far away, 
Like glauncing light of Phosbus brightest ray ; 
From top to toe no place appeared bare, 
That deadly dint of Steele endanger may : 
Athwart Iris brest a bauldrick brave he ware, 
That shind, like twinkling stars, with stones most pretious rare : 

XXX. 

And, in the midst thereof, one pretious stone 

Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, 

* Vdorading — flowing. 

a A. goodly Knight. — This is Prince Arthur, in whose faultless excellence Spenser is supposed to 
Iwve represented his illustrious friend, Sir Philip Sidney, whose beautiful character and splendid 
acA^-np^sh nenU; kindled a warmth of admiration among his contemporaries, of which we find it 
difficult to x>nct ve in our colder and more prosaic age. 



100 SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, 

Sliapt like a Ladies head, exceeding shone, 
Like Hesperus emongst the lesser lights, 
And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : 
Thereby his mortall blade full comely hong 
In yvory sheath, ycarv'd with curious slights, 1 
Whose hilts were burnisht gold ; and handle strong 
Of mother perle ; and buckled with a golden tong. 

XXXI. 

His haughtie helmet, horrid all with gold, 
Both glorious brightnesse and great terrour bredd : 
For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
With greedie pawes, and over all did spredd 
His golden winges ; his dreadfull hideous hedd, 
Close couched on the bever, seemd to throw 
From flaming mouth bright sparckles fiery redd, 
That suddeine horrour to faint hartes did show ; 
And scaly tayle was stretcht adowne his back full low. 

XXXII. 

Upon the top of all his loftie crest, 
A bounch of heares discolourd diversly, 
With sprincled pearle and gold full richly drest, 
Did shake, and seemd to daunce for iollity ; 
Like to an almond tree ymounted hye 
On top of greene Selinis 2 all alone, 
With blossoms brave bedecked daintily ; 
Whose tender locks do tremble every one 
At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne. 

Book I. Canto VII 

DESCRIPTION OF BELPHffiBE. 

XXI. 

Eftsoone 3 there stepped foorth 
A goodly Ladie 4 clad in hunters weed, 
That seemd to be a woman of great worth, 
And by her stately portance 5 borne of heavenly birth. 

XXII. 

Her face so faire, as flesh it seemed not, 

But hevenly pourtraict of bright angels hew, 

Cleare as the skye, withouten blame or blot, 

Through goodly mixture of complexions dew; 

And in her cheekes the vermeill red did shew 

Like roses in a bed of lillies shed, 

The which ambrosiall odours from them threw, 

1 Slights— devices. 

2 Greene Selinis.— Selinis is evidently the name of some hill or mountain, -which I do not find In 
any book of reference within reach. Upton, strangely enough, supposes it to be Selinus, a city in 
Cilicia, to which he applies an epithet, "Palmosa," applied by Virgil to another city of the same name 
in Sicily. After this double blunder, he remarks, with amusing simplicity, " The simile of the almond- 
tree is exceeding elegant, and much after the cast of that admired image in Homer," &c. Todd copies 
the whole without comment.— Hillard. 3 Eftsoone— immediately. 

4 A goodly Ladie, &c— In the beautiful and elaborate portrait of Belphoebe, Spenser has drawn a 
flattered likeness of Queen Elizabeth. 6 Portance— demeanor. 



1558-1608, ] spenser. 101 

And g izers sence with double pleasure fed, 
Hable to heale the sicke and to revive the ded. 

XXIII. 

In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame, 
Kindled above at th' Hevenly Makers light, 
And darted fyrie beames out of the same, 
So passing persant, 1 and so wondrous bright, 
That quite bereavd the rash beholders sight; 
In them the blinded god his lustful fyre 
To kindle oft assayd, but had no might; 
For, with dredd maiestie and awfull yre 
She broke his wanton darts, and quenched bace desyre. 

XXIV. 

Her yvoire forhead, full of bountie brave, 
Like a broad table did itselfe dispred, 
For Love his loftie triumphes to engrave, 
And write the battailes of his great godhed: 
All good and honour might therein be red; 
For there their dwelling was. And, when she spake, 
Sweete wordes, like dropping honny. she did shed; 
And twixt the perles and rubins 2 softly brake 
A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to make. 

XXV. 

Upon her eyelids many Graces sate, 
Under the shadow of her even browes, 
Working belgardes 3 and amorous retrate; 4 
And everie one her with a grace endowes, 
And everie one with meekenesse to her bowes: 
So glorious mirrhour of celestiall grace, 
And soveraine moniment of mortall vowes, 
How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face, 
For feare, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace ! 

XXVI. 

So faire, and thousand thousand times more faire, 
She seemd, when she presented was to sight ; 
And was yclad, for heat of scorching aire, 
All in a silken camus 5 lilly whight, 
Purfled 6 upon with many a folded plight, 7 
Which all above besprinckled was throughout 
With golden aygulets, 8 that glistred bright 
Like twinckling starres ; and all the skirt about 
Was hemd with golden fringe. 

XXX. 

Her yellow lockes, 9 crisped like golden wyre, 
About her shoulders weren loosely shed, 
And, when the winde emongst them did inspyre, 10 
They waved like a penon wyde dispred. 

1 Persant— piercing. 2 Rubins— rubies. 3 Belgardes— sweet looks. 4 Retrate — picture. 

b Camus— thin dress. 6 Purfled— embroidered. 7 Plight— plait. 8 Aygulets — tagged poicti>. 
9 The yellow locks of Queen Elizabeth enter largely into the descriptions of beauty Dy the poets 
of her reign. 10 Inspyre— breathe. 

9* 



102 SPENSER. [ELIZABETH, 

And low behinde her backe were scattered : 
And, whether art it were or heedlesse hap, 
As through the flouring forrest rash she fled, 
In her rude heares sweet flowres themselves did lap, 1 
And flourishing flesh leaves and blossomes did enwrap. 

Book II. Canto III, 

THE CARE OF ANGELS OVER MEN. 



And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 

In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, 

That may compassion of their evils move? 

There is : — else much more wretched were the cace 

Of men then beasts : But ! th' exceeding grace 

Of Highest God that loves his creatures so, 

And all Iris workes with mercy doth embrace, 

That blessed Angels he sends to and fro, 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 

ii. 
How oft do they their silver bowers leave 

To come to succour us that succour want! 

How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 

The flitting 2 skyes, like flying pursuivant, 

Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! 

They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward, 

And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 

And all for love and nothing for reward : 
O, why should Hevenly God to men have such regard ! 

Book II. Canto VIII. 

THE SEASONS. 



So forth issew'd the Seasons of the yeare : 

First, lusty Spring all dight 3 in leaves of flowres 
That freshly budded and new bloosmes did beare, 
In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, 
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours ; 
And in his hand a iavelin he did beare, 
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures 4 ) 
A guilt 5 engraven morion 6 he did weare ; 

That as some did him love, so others did him feare. 

XXIX. 

Then came the iolly Sommer, being dight 
In a thin silken cassock colored greene, 
That was unlyned all, to be more light: 
And on his head a girlond well beseene 
He wore, from which, as he had chauffed 7 been, 
The sweat did drop ; and in his hand he bore 
A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene 

1 Lap — entwine themselves. 2 Yielding. 3 Adorned. i Encouiiters. 

3 Gilded. 6 Helmet. 7 Chafed, heated. 



1558-1603.] spenser. 103 

Had hunted late the libbarcl 1 or the bore, 
And now would bathe his limbes with labor heated sore. 



Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad, 

As though he ioyed in his plentious store, 

Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad 

That he had banisht hunger, which to-fore 

Had by the belly oft him pinched sore : 

Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold 

With ears of come of every sort, he bore ; 

And in his hand a sickle he did holde, 
To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. 2 



Lastly, came Winter cloathed all in frize, 

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill ; 

Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freese, 

And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill 3 

As from a limbeck 4 did adown distill: 

In his right hand a tipped staife he held, 

With which his feeble steps he stayed still ; 

For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; 5 
That scarce his loosed limbes he able was to weld. 6 

Book VII. Canto VII.T 

The chief prose work of Spenser is his " View of the State of Ireland." It 
gives an excellent account of the customs, manners, and national character of 
the Irish, and there is no contemporary piece of prose to compare with it in 
purity. From it we have room to select the following short extract, only 
upon 

l Leopard. 2 Yielded. 3 Nose. 4 Retort. & OJd age. 6 Wield, move. 

7 "I have just finished ' The Faerie Queen.' I never parted from a long poem with so much regret. 
He is a poet of a most musical ear— of a tender heart — of a peculiarly soft, rich, fertile, and flowery 
fancy. His verse always flows with ease and nature, most abundantly and sweetly; his diffusion 
is not only pardonable, but agreeable. Grandeur and energy are not his characteristic qualities. He 
seems to me a most genuine poet, and to be justly placed after Shakspeare and Milton, and above all 
other English poets." — Sir James Mackintosh. 

"Spenser excels in the two qualities in which Chaucer is most deficient— invention and fancy. The 
Invention shown in his allegorical personages is endless, as the fancy shown in his description of 
them is gorgeous and delightful. He is the poet of romance. He describes things as in a splendid 
and voluptuous dream." — Hazlitt. 

"His command of imagery is wide, easy, and luxuriant. He threw the soul of harmony into oui 
verse, and made it more warmly, tenderly, and magnificently descriptive than it ever was before, or, 
with a few exceptions, than it ever has been since. It must certainly be owned that in description 
he exhibits nothing of the brief strokes and robust power which characterize the very greatest 
poets ; but we shall nowhere find more airy and expansive images of visionary things, a sweeter 
tone of sentiment, or a finer flush in the colors of language, than in this Rubens of English poetry.* — 
Campbell's Specimens, i. 125. 

The best, or variorum edition of Spenser, (so called because it has all the notes of the various com- 
mentators,) is that of Todd, 8 vols. 8vo. London, 1805. Read— an article on Spenser's Minor Poems 
in Retrospective Review, xii. 142 : also, Edinburgh Review, xxiv. : also, a brilliant series of papers 
on the Faerie Gueene, in Blackwood's Magazine, 1834 and 1835, by Professor Wilsoi : .tlso, "Ob- 
servations on the Faerie Queene," by Thomas Warton. 



104 HOOKER. [ELIZABETH, 

THE IRISH BARDS. 

There is amongst the Irish a certain kind of people called 
Bards, which are to them instead of poets, whose profession is 
to set forth the praises or dispraises of men, in their poems 01 
rithmes ; the which are had in so high regard and estimation 
amongst them, that none dare displease them for fear to run into 
reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the 
mouths of all men. For their verses are taken up with a general 
applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings by certain 
other persons, whose proper function that is, who also receive for 
the same great rewards and reputation amongst them. * * 

Such poets as in their writings do labor to better the manners 
of men, and through the sweet bait of their numbers to steal into 
the young spirits a desire of honor and virtue, are worthy to be 
had in great respect. But these Irish bards are for the most part 
of another mind, and so far from instructing young men in moral 
discipline, that they themselves do more deserve to be sharply 
disciplined : for they seldom use to choose unto themselves the 
doings of good men for the arguments of their poems, but whom- 
soever they find to be most licentious of life, most bold and law- 
less in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of 
disobedience and rebellious disposition ; him they set up and 
glorify in their rithmes, him they praise to the people, and to 
young men make an example to follow. 



RICHARD HOOKER. 1553—1600 



Oste of the most learned and distinguished prose "writers in the age of Eliz- 
abeth, was Richard Hooker. He was born near Exeter in 1553. His 
parents, being poor, destined him for a trade ; but he displayed at school so 
much aptitude for learning, and gentleness of disposition, that through the 
efforts of the bishop of Salisbury he was sent to Oxford. Here he pursued 
his studies with great ardor and success, and became much respected for his 
modesty, learning, and piety. In 1577 he was elected fellow of his college, 
and in 1581 took orders in the Episcopal church. Soon after this he went to 
preach in London, at Paul's Cross, and took lodgings in a house set apart 
for the reception of the preachers. The hostess, an artful and designing woman 
perceiving Hooker's great simplicity of character, soon inveigled him into a 
marriage with her daughter, which proved a source of disquietude and vexa- 
tion to him throughout his life. He was soon advanced in ecclesiastical pre- 
ferment, and made master of the Temple, where he commenced his labors as 
forenoon preacher. But this situation accorded neither with his temper nor 
his literary pursuits, and he petitioned the archbishop of Canterbury to 
remove him to " some quiet parsonage." He obtained nis desire, and was 
presented by Elizabeth to the rectory of Bishop's Bourne, in Kent, where 



1558-1603.] hooker. 105 

he spent the remainder of his life. He died in 1600, of pulmonic disease, 
brought on by an accidental cold, when only forty-seven years of age. 

Hooker's great work is his "Ecclesiastical Polity," a defence of the Church 
of England against the Puritans. It doubtless owes its origin to the fact that 
the office of afternoon lecturer at the Temple was filled by Walter Travers, 
of highly Calvinistic views; while the views of Hooker, both on church go- 
vernment and doctrines, were different. Indeed, so avowedly did they preach 
in opposition to each other, that the remark was frequently made that "the 
forenoon sermons spoke Canterbury, and the afternoon, Geneva." Such was 
the beginning of this great work, which is a monument of the learning, saga- 
city, and industry of the author, and contains the most profound and the 
ablest defence of ecclesiastical establishments which has ever appeared. The 
style of the work, too, possesses some of the highest characteristics, perspicuity, 
purity, and strength ; though generally, from the author's great familiarity with 
the classics, savoring a little too much of the idiom and construction of the 
Latin. The work, however, is not to be regarded simply as a theological 
treatise ; for it is still referred to as a great authority on questions in the whole 
range of moral and philosophical subjects. The praise that Hallam has 
given him, is well deserved. "The finest, as well as the most philosophical 
writer of the Elizabethan period is Hooker. The first book of the Ecclesias- 
tical Polity is at this day one of the masterpieces of English eloquence. His 
periods, indeed, are generally much too long and too intricate, but portions of 
them are often beautifully rhythmical : his language is rich in English idiom 
without vulgarity, and in words of a Latin sense without pedantry. He is 
more uniformly solemn than the visage of later times permits, or even than 
writers of that time, such as Bacon, conversant with mankind as well as 
books, would have reckoned necessary ; but the example of ancient orators 
and philosophers upon themes so grave as those which he discusses, may 
justify the serious dignity from which he does not depart. Hooker is, per- 
haps, the first in England who adorned his prose with the images of poetry; 
but this he has done more judiciously and with more moderation than others 
of great name ; and we must be bigots in Attic severity before we can object 
to some of his figures of speech." l 

The following is the letter which he wrote to the archbishop when he 
desired to retire to the country : — 

My Lord— 

When I lost the freedom of my cell, which was my college, yet 
I found some degree of it in my quiet country parsonage. But I 
am weary of the noise and oppositions of this place ; and indeed, 
God and nature did not intend me for contentions, but for study 
and quietness. And, my lord, my particular contests here with 

1 " Literature of Europe," i. 381, Harper's edition. Read, also, "a biograyhy which cannot be ex- 
celled," in old Izaak Walton's Lives of Donne, Hooker, Herbert, &c— ont of Dr. Johnson's most 
favorite books. "Lowth, in the preface to his Grammar, expresses an opfrLin, that, in correctness 
and propriety of language, Hooker has never been surpassed, or even equalled by any of his con- 
temporaries. But amply as he enriched his native tongue, he frequently pie*v nts the cumbrous gait 
and the rough aspect of a pioneer. Taylor surpassed him in all the charms o* imagination ; Hall, in 
the sweetness and color of his thoughts; Banrow, in the illumination of his at ument. But Hooker 
excelled them all in muscular vigor. To his controversy with Travers we ow the immortal Polity. 
We turn to his works, as to some mighty bulwark against infidelity, iRpregi \He to the assaults 
of successive generations." — WULinott. 



106 HOOKER. [ELIZABETH, 

Mr. Travers, have proved the more unpleasant to me, because I 
believe him to be a good man ; and that belief hath occasioned 
me to examine mine own conscience concerning his opinions. 
And to satisfy that, I have consulted the Holy Scripture, and other 
laws, both human and divine, whether the conscience of him, and 
others of his judgment, ought to be so far complied with by us, as 
to alter our frame of church-government, our manner of God's 
worship, our praising, and praying to Him, and our established 
ceremonies, as often as their tender consciences shall require us. 
And in this examination I have not only satisfied myself, but 
have begun a treatise, in which I intend the satisfaction of others, 
by a demonstration of the reasonableness of our laws of ecclesi- 
astical polity. But, my lord, I shall never be able to finish what 
I have begun, unless I be removed into some quiet parsonage, 
where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, 
and eat my own bread in peace and privacy : a place where I 
may, without disturbance, meditate my approaching mortality, and 
that great account, which all flesh must give at the last day to the 
God of all spirits. 

THE NECESSITY AND MAJESTY OF LAW. 

The stateliness of houses, the goodliness of trees, when we be- 
hold them, delighteth the eye ; but that foundation which beareth 
up the one, that root which ministreth unto the other nou- 
rishment and life, is in the bosom of the earth concealed ; and 
if there be occasion at any time to search into it, such labor is then 
more necessary than pleasant, both to them which undertake it, 
and for the lookers on. In like manner, the use and benefit of 
good laws all that live under them may enjoy with delight and 
comfort, albeit the grounds and first original causes from whence 
they have sprung be unknown, as to the greatest part of men 
they are. 

Since the time that God did first proclaim the edicts of his law 
upon the world, heaven and earth have hearkened unto his voice, 
and their labor hath been to do his will. He made a law for the 
rain; he gave his decree unto the sea, that the waters should not 
pass his commandment. Now, if nature should intermit her 
course, and leave altogether, though it were for a while, the ob- 
servation of her own laws ; if those principal and mother elements 
of the world, whereof all things in this lower world are made, 
should lose the qualities which now they have ; if the frame of 
that heavenly arch erected over our heads should loosen and dis- 
solve itself; if celestial spheres should forget their wonted mo- 
tions, and by irregular volubility turn themselves any way as it 
might happen ; if the prince of the lights of heaven, which now, 



1558-1603.] hooker. 107 

as a giant, doth run his unwearied course, should, as it were, 
through a languishing faintness, begin to stand and to rest him- 
self; if the moon should wander from her beaten way, the times 
and seasons of the year blend themselves by disordered and con- 
fused mixture, the winds breathe out their last gasp, the clouds 
yield no rain, the earth be defected of heavenly influence, the 
fruits of the earth pine away, as children at the withered breasts 
of their mother, no longer able to yield them relief; what would 
become of man himself, whom these things do now all serve 1 See 
we not plainly, that obedience of creatures unto the law of nature 
is the stay of the whole world ? 

Of Law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat 
is the bosom of God ; her voice the harmony of the world. All 
things in heaven and earth do her homage ; the very least as feel- 
ing her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power. 
Both angels and men, and creatures of what condition soever, 
though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform 
consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy. 

SUDDEN DEATH NOT DESIRABLE. 

Death is that which all men suffer, but not all men with one 
mind, neither all men in one manner. For being of necessity a 
thing common, it is through the manifold persuasions, dispositions, 
and occasions of men, with equal desert both of praise and dis- 
praise, shunned by some, by others desired. So that absolutely 
we cannot discommend, we cannot absolutely approve, either 
willingness to live, or forwardness to die. And concerning the 
ways of death, albeit the choice thereof be only in his hands who 
alone hath power over all flesh, and unto whose appointment we 
ought with patience meekly to submit ourselves, (for to be agents 
voluntarily in our own destruction, is against both God and na- 
ture ;) yet there is no doubt, but in so great variety, our desires 
will and may lawfully prefer one kind before another. Is there 
any man of worth and virtue, although not instructed in the school 
of Christ, or ever taught what the soundness of religion meaneth, 
that had not rather end the days of this transitory life, as Cyrus 
in Xenophon, or in Plato, Socrates, is described, than to sink down 
with them, of whom Elihu hath said, Momento morientur^ there 
is scarce an instant between their nourishing and not being ! But 
let us which know what it is to die as Absalom, or Ananias and 
Sapphira died, let us beg of God, that when the hour of our rest 
is come, the patterns of our dissolution may be Jacob, Moses, 
Joshua, David ; who, leisureably ending their lives in peace, 
prayed for the mercies of God to come upon their posterity ; re- 

1 Job xxxiv. 20 : " In a moment shall they die " 



108 HOOKER. [ELIZABETH, 

olenished the hearts of the nearest unto them with words of me- 
morable consolation; strengthened men in the fear of God; gave 
them wholesome instructions of life, and confirmed them in true 
religion ; in sum, taught the world no less virtuously how to die, 
than they had done before how to live. 1 

THE EXCELLENCY OF THE PSALMS. 

The choice and flower of all things profitable in other books, 
the Psalms do both more briefly contain, and more movingly also 
express, by reason of that poetical form wherewith they are 
written. The ancients, when they speak of the Book of Psalms, 
used to fall into large discourses, showing how this part above the 
rest doth of purpose set forth and celebrate all the considerations 
and operations which belong to God; it magnifieth the holy 
meditations and actions of divine men ; it is of things heavenly 
an universal declaration, working in them whose hearts God in- 
spireth with the due consideration thereof, an habit or disposition 
of mind whereby they are made fit vessels, both for receipt and 
for delivery of whatsoever spiritual perfection. What is there 
necessary for man to know which the Psalms are not able to 
teach ? They are to beginners an easy and familiar introduction, 
a mighty augmentation of all virtue and knowledge in such as are 
entered before, a strong confirmation to the most perfect amongst 
others. Heroical magnanimity, exquisite justice, grave modera- 
tion, exact wisdom, repentance unfeigned, unwearied patience, 
the mysteries of God, the sufferings of Christ, the terrors of wrath, 
the comforts of Grace, the works of Providence over this world, 
and the promised joys of that world which is to come, all good 
necessarily to be either known, or done, or had, this one celestial 
fountain yieldeth. Let there be any grief or disease incident unto 
the soul of man, any wound or sickness named, for which there 
is not in this treasure-house a present comfortable remedy at all 
times ready to be found. Hereof it is, that we covet to make the 
Psalms especially familiar unto all. This is the very cause why 
we iterate the Psalms oftener than any other part of Scripture 
besides ; the cause wherefore we inure the people together with 
their minister, and not the minister alone, to read them as other 
parts of Scripture he doth. 3 

1 The reader here is reminded of the lines of Tickeil on the death of Addison— 

"He taught us how to live, and O ! too high 
The price of knowledge, taught us how to die." 

2 The hest edition of Hooker's works is that by Keble, 2 vols., the author of the "Christian Year." 
nnd the writer of a valuable article on sacred poetry in the 32d vol. of the Quarterly Review. For 
un account of the tracts which gave rise to Hooker's great work— his Ecclesiastical Polity— see 
Belce's "Anecdotes of Literature," i. 19—23. 



1558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 109 



ENGLISH MINSTRELSY.i 

The Minstrels were a class of men in the middle ages, who subsisted by 
the arts of poetry and music ; who went about from place to place, and offered 
their poetical and musical wares wherever they could find a market. They 
appear to have accompanied their songs with mimicry and action, and in 
short to have practised such various means of diverting, as were much ad- 
mired in those rude times, and supplied the want of more refined entertain- 
ment. These arts rendered them extremely popular and acceptable wherever 
they went. No great scene of festivity was considered complete that was 
not set off with the exercise of their talents ; and so long as the spirit of 
chivalry existed, with which their songs were so much in keeping, they were 
protected and caressed. 

Of the origin of the Minstrels, it is difficult to find any thing satisfactory. 
The term seems to be derived from the Latin minister or ministellus, "an 
attendant," " an assistant," as the Minstrels were attendant upon persons of 
rank, and assistants at their entertainments. But whatever may be said of 
their origin, the Minstrels continued a distinct order of men till centuries after 
die Norman conquest, and there is but little doubt that most of the fine old 
ballads in English Literature, were not only sung, but in many cases written 
by the professed Minstrel. 

There are many incidents in early English history which show how nu- 
merous was this body of men. and in what high estimation they were held. 
The one most familiar, is that of King Alfred's entering die Danish camp, in 
the disguise of a harper. Though known by his dialect to be a Saxon, the 
character he assumed procured him a hospitable reception. He was ad- 
mitted to entertain the Danish princes at. their table, and stayed among them 
long enough to observe all their movements, and to plan that assault which 
resulted in their overthrow. So also the story of Blondelfs going unharmed 
over Europe, in search of Richard I., goes to prove the same fact — the high 
estimation in which the Minstrel in early times was held. 

In the reign of Edward H. (1307 — 1327) such extensive privileges were 
claimed by Minstrels, and by dissolute persons assuming their character, that 
they became a public grievance, and their liberties were restricted by express 
statute. Finally, in the 39th year of the reign of Elizabeth, (1597,) diis class 
of persons had so sunk in public estimation, that a statute was passed by 
which "Minstrels, wandering abroad, were included among rogues, vaga- 
bonds, and sturdy beggars," and were adjudged to be punished as such. 

SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

This ballad lays claim to a high and remote antiquity. There are different 
opinions as to its origin, which the reader may see stated in Sir Walter Scott's 
"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The probability is, that it is founded on 
authentic history, and that it records the melancholy and disastrous fate of 
that gallant band which, about the year 1280, followed in the suite of Mar- 
garet, daughter of Alexander the Third of Scotland, when she was espoused 

1 Read— Percy's "Reliqnes of Ancient English Poetry"— Motherwell's " Ancient and Modern Min- 
strelsy"— Sir Walter Scott's " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border"— The "Book of the British Ballad*" 
-Herd's " Collection of Songs and Ballads.'' 

10 



110 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, 

to Eric of Norway. According to Fordun, the old Scottish historian, many 
distinguished nobles accompanied her in this expedition to Norway, to grace 
her nuptials, several of whom perished in a storm while on their return to 
Scotland. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine : 
" O where will I get a skeely skipper 1 

To sail this new ship of mine ?" 

O up and spake an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid 2 letter, 

And sealed it with his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the strand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o"er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame !" 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud loud laughed he ; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

" wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the king o' me, 
To send us out at this time of the year, 

To sail upon the sea ? 

" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it slee t, 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway, but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our ldng's gowd 3 

And a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 

ifu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

1 Skilful mariner. 2 Broad, large. 8 Gold. 



1558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. Ill 

" For I hae brought as much white moirie 

As gane 1 my men and me, — 
And I hae brought a half-fou 2 o' gude red gowd 

Out owre the sea wi' me. 

* Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a' ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi* the auld moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three, 
When the lift 3 grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 4 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves came o'er the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

" where will I get a gude sailor 

To take my helm in hand, 
Till I get up to the tall topmast, 

To see if I can spy land 1 ?" 

r here am I, a sailor gude, 

To take the helm in hand, 
Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 

"He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
""■Then a boult 5 flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

** Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine, 
\nd wap them into our ship's side, 

And letna the sea come in." 6 

'Vhey fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine, 
raid they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side, 

— But still the sea came in. 

1 Snnlce. 2 The eighth part of a peck. 3 Sky. Sprang-. 

5 If a " bcit flew out," of course a plank must have started. 

6 In one of Cook's voyages, when a ]eak coold not be got at inside, a sail was brought under toe 
vessel, which by tne pressure of the sea was forced into the hole, and prevented the entry of more 
wacer. 



112 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, 

laith l laith were our glide Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 2 
But lang or a' the play was played, 

They wat their hats aboon. 3 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair came hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair ; 
A' for the sake of their true loves, — 

For them they'll see na mair. 

lang lang may the ladyes sit, 

Wi' their fans into their hand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to the strand ! 

And lang lang may the maidens sit, 

Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 
A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 

For them they'll see na mair. 

O forty miles off Aberdeen 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

CHEVY-CHASE. 

One of the most celebrated of the English Ballads, is that of " Chevy-Chase." 
Like one of the paintings of the old masters, the more it is read the more it 
is admired. Sir Philip Sidney, in his " Defence of Poesy," says, " I never 
heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart more 
moved than with a trumpet." 4 Its subject is this. It was a regulation be- 
tween those who lived near the borders of England and Scotland, that neither 
party should hunt in the other's domains without leave. There had long 
been a rivalship between the two martial families, Percy of Northumberland 
and Douglas of Scotland, and the former had vowed to hunt for three days in 
the Scottish border, without asking leave of Earl Douglas, who was lord of 
the soil. Douglas did not fail to resent the insult, and endeavor to repel the 
intruders by force, which brought on the sharp conflict which the ballad so 
graphically describes. It took place in the region of the Cheviot Hills, 
whence its name. 

1 Loath. 2 Shoes. 

3 Another reading is — "Their hair was wat aboon;" that is, tbey who were at first loath to wet 
their shoes, were entirely immersed in the sea and drowned. 

4 The ballad of which Sidney here speaks is the ancient one, beginning — 

The Perse owt of Northombarlande, 

And a vowe to God mayd he. 
Bu*. the spelling is so -very antiquated that I have given the more modern one, the same that Addison 
has criticised in numbers 70 and 74 of the Spectator. 



1.S58-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 113 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all ; 
A woful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chase befall ; 

To drive the deer with hound and horn, 

Earl Percy took his way ; 
The child may rue that is unborn, 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer's days to take ; 

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay : 

"Who sent Earl Percy present word, 

He would prevent his sport. 
The English Earl, not fearing that, 

Did to the woods resort 

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold, 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, 

To chase the fallow-deer : 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

Ere daylight did appear ; 

And long before high noon they had 

An hundred fat bucks slain ; 
Then having dined, the drovers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The bow-men muster'd on the hills, 

Well able to endure ; 
Their backsides all, Math special care, 

That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 

The nimble deer to take, 
That with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, 

To view the slaughter'd deer; 
Quoth he, Earl Douglas promised 

This day to meet me here: 

But if I thought he would not come, 

No longer would I stay. 
With that, a brave young gentleman 

Tl is to the Earl did say 
H 10* 



114 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, 

Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 

His men in armor bright ; 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 

All men of pleasant Tivydale, 
Fast by the river Tweed : 

cease your sports, Earl Percy said, 
And take your bows with speed: 

And now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland or in France, 

That ever did on horseback come, 
But if my hap it were, 

1 durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spear. 

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his company, 

Whose armor shone like gold. 

Show me, said he, whose men you be 

That hunt so boldly here, 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kill my fallow-deer. 

The first man that did answer make, 

Was noble Percy he ; 
Who said, We list not to declare, 

Nor show whose men we be : 

» 
Yet we will spend our dearest blood 

Thy chiefest harts to slay. 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, 

And thus in rage did say, 

Ere thus I will out-braved be, 

One, of us two shall die: 
I know thee well, an earl thou art ; 

Lord Percy, so am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pity it were, 

And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battle try, 

And set our men aside, 
Accurst be he, Earl Percy said, 

By whom this is denied. 

Then stepp'd a gallant squire forth, 

Witherington was his name, 
Who said, I would not have it told 

To Henry our king for shame, 



1558-1603.] ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. 115 

That e'er my captain fought uu foot, 

And I stood looking on; 
You be two earls, said Witherington, 

And I a squire alone : 

111 do the best that do I may, 

While I have power to stand : 
While I have power to wield my sword, 

I'll fight with heart and hand. 

Our English archers bent their bows, 

Their hearts were good and true ; 
At the first flight of arrows sent, 

Full fourscore Scots they slew. 



They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

dear ! it was a grief to see, 
And likewise for to hear, 

The cries of men lf(ng in their gore, 
And scatter'd here and there. 



This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun 5 
For when they rung the evening-bell, 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Percy, there was slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James that bold baron: 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 

Both knights of good account, 
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, 

Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington needs must I wail, 

As one in doleful dumps ; J 
For when his l^gs were smitten off, 

He fought upon his stumps. 
******* 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 
Went home but fifty-three ; 

l i. e. "I, as one in deep concern, must lament." The construction here has generally been mt«« 
understood. The old MSS. read " woful dumps." The corresponding verse in the old ballad is as 
follows: — 

" For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, 
That ever he slayne shulde be; 
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, 
Yet he knyled and fought on hys kne." 



116 ENGLISH MINSTRELSY. [ELIZABETH, 

The rest -were slain in Chevy-Chase, 
Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come. 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple gore, 

They bare with them away : 
They kiss'd them dead a thousand times, 

Ere they were clad hi clay. 



God save our king, and bless this land 
With plenty, joy, and peace ; 

And grant henceforth, that foul debate 
'Twixt noblemen may cease. 

THE TWO CORBIES. 1 

There were two corbies sat on a tree 

Large and black as black might be ; 

And one the other gan say, 

Where shall we go and dine to-day? 

Shall we go dine by the wild salt sea ? 

Shall we go dine 'neath the greenwood tree? 

As I sat on the deep sea sand, 

I saw a fair ship nigh at land, 

I waved my wings, I bent my beak, 

The ship sunk, and I heard a shriek ; 

There they he, one, two, and three, 

I shall dine by the wild salt sea. 

Come, I will show ye a sweeter sight, 

A lonesome glen, and a new-slain knight; 

His blood yet on the grass is hot, 

His sword half-drawn, his shafts unshot, 

And no one kens that he lies there, 

But his hawk, his hound, and bis lady fair. 

His hound is to the hunting gane, 
His hawk to fetch the wild fowl hame, 
His lady's away with another mate, 
So we shall make our dinner sweet ; 
Our dinner's sure, our feasting free, 
Come, and dine by the greenwood tree. 

Ye shall sit on his white hause-bane, 2 
I will pick out his bony blue een ; 
Ye'.ll take a tress of his yellow hair, 
To theak yere nest when it grows bare ; 
The gowden 3 down on his young chin 
Will do to sewe my young ones in. 

1 One of the most poetical and picturesque ballads existing. 
2 The neck-bone— a phrase for the neck. 3 Golden. 



1558-1603.] QUEEN ELIZABETH. 117 

0, cauld and bare will his bed be, 
When winter storms sing in the tree ; 
At his head a turf, at his feet a stone, 
He will sleep nor hear the maidens moan ; 
Oer his white bones the birds shall fly, 
The wild deer bound, and foxes cry. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 1 1533—1603. 

The pretensions of Queen Elizabeth to poetic genius are about as valid as 
her pretensions to beauty; yet she loved to be flattered for both, as much as for 
her classical attainments, which she really possessed. The desire of shining 
as a poetess was one of her weaknesses ; and her vanity, no doubt, made her 
regard as tributes justly paid, the extravagant praises which the courtiers 
and writers of her age lavished on her royal ditties. 

We have but very little of her poetry: the best piece, perhaps, is one 
which shows that, notwithstanding her maidenly stateliness and prudery, 
she was not altogether a stranger to the tender passion. 

VERSES ON HER OWN FEELINGS. 3 

I gkieve, and dare not show my discontent, 
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate ; 

1 It would of course be impossible here to give a mere outline of Elizabeth's life, so full of import- 
ant events. Any good history of England may be read for the requisite information. Of the smaller 
histories, Keightley's is the best. Read, also, a well-written life in Mrs. Strickland's ' Lives of the 
Queens of England." In Dr. Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," will be found some interesting 
particulars of her attainments, domestic habits, love of dress, vanity, jealousy, and her fondness for 
the drama and the brutal show of bear-baiting, &c. &c. 

2 These verses first appeared in print in " Headley's Anc. Eng. Poet." They were transcribed 
from a manuscript in the Ashmolean Museum. Unfortunately, the most important word is half ob- 
literated — "upon Moun— s departure;" but the following account from the old chronicler Stow shows 
pretty conclusively that it refers to the Duke of Alencon. "These Lords (the Ambassadors from 
France,) after divers secret conferences amongst themselves, and return of sundry letters into 
France, signifying the queen's declination from marriage, and the people's unwillingness to match 
that way, held it most convenient that the duke should come in proper person, whose presence they 
thought in such affairs might prevail more than all their oratory : and, thereupon, the first of No- 
vember, the said prince came over in person, very princely accompanied and attended, though not 
in such glorious manner as were the above-named commissioners, whose entertainment, in all re- 
spects, was equivalent unto his estate and dignity. By this time his picture, state, and titles >rere 
advanced in every stationer's shop, and many other public places, by the name of Frauncis of Vacoa, 
Duke of Alanson, heir apparent of France, and brother to the French king : but he was better known 
by the name of Monsieur, unto all sorts of people, than by all bis other tittes. During his abode in 
England, he used all princely means to prefer his suit, and in his carriage demeaned himself like a 
true born prince, and the heir of France: and when he had well observed the queen's full determi- 
nation to continue a single life, he pacified himself, admiring her rare virtues and high perfections. 
The queen in all respects showed as great kindness unto the duke and all his retinue, at their de- 
parture, as at any time before, and for period of her princely favors, in that behalf, she, with great 
state, accompanied the duke in person to Canterbury; where she feasted him and all his train very 
royally, and then returned. The next day, being the sixth of February, the duke, with his French 
lord? and others, embarked at Sandwich." 

"As dead queens rank but with meaner mortals, we may assert, without much fear of contradfo 
tion, that little else can now be gratified by the perusal of Elizabeth's poetry than mere curiosity."— 
Heudley, 



118 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. [JAMES I. 

I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, 

I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate : 

I am, and not, I freeze, and yet am burn'd, 
Since from myself my other self I turn'd. 

My care is like my shadow in the sun, 

Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it ; 

Stands and lies by me, does what I have done, 

This too familiar care does make me rue it. 

No means I find to rid him from my breast, 
Till by the end of tilings it be suppress'd. 

Some gentler passions slide into my mind, 
For I am soft, and made of melting snow ; 
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind, 
Let me or float or sink, be high or low. 

Or let me live with some more sweet content, 
Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant. 

Signed, " Fmis, Eliza. Regina, upon 
Moun — s departure." 



TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.i 



No literary undertaking in any age of English Literature has proved to be 
as important in its results, as the Translation of the Bible under the direction 
of King James I. Of the labors of Wiclif in translating the Bible from the 
Latin Vulgate, and of the successful exertions of Tyndale, in face of every 
danger and even of death, in giving to his countrymen a version of the New 
Testament in their vernacular tongue, short accounts are given under the 
lives of those scholars, together with specimens of uieir respective transla- 
tions. Subsequently, very many versions appeared, of which the following 
are the most important : — 

i. Coverdale's Bible. This was printed in Zurich, in 1535, because the 
translator, Miles Coverdale, a native of Yorkshire, was obJiged to fly from his 
native land. To him, therefore, must be awarded the nonor of being the 
first to give the whole Bible hi English, translated out of the original tongues. 
It was printed in double columns, folio. 

2. Matthewe's Bible. This appeared in 1537. But the name, Thomas 
iVTatthewe, which appeared in the title-page, and from which it has received 
its name, was undoubtedly fictitious, and the real editor was John Rogers, 
who was burned at the stake in die reign of Mary. 

l In mentioning the several causes that made the age of Elizabeth so distinguished for its great 
names in literature, Hazlitt, in his "Literature of the Age of Elizabeth," thus writes:— "The trans* 
lation of the Bible was the chief engine in the great work. It threw open, by a secret spring, the 
rich treasures of religion and morality which had been there locked up as in a shrine. It revealed 
the visions of the prophets, and conveyed the lessons of inspired teachers to the meanest of the 
people. It gave them a common interest in a common cause. Their hearts burnt within them aa 
tney read. It gave a mind to the people, by giving them common subjects of thought and feeling, 
it cemented their union of character and sentiment; it created endless diversity and collision of 
opinion. They found objects to employ their faculties, and a motive in the magnitude of the conse- 
quences attached to them, to er.ert the utmost eagerness iu the pursuit of truth, and the most daring 
Intrepidity in maintairang it." 



1603-1625.] TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 119 

3. Cranmer's, or The Great Bible, in large folio. This appeared in 
1539. The preface was written by Cranraer, then archbishop of Canterbury, 
but the translation or revision was by many hands, the chief of whom was 
Coverdale. 

4. Taverwer's Bible. This appeared in 1539, edited by Richard Taverner, 
the text being formed on Matthewe's Bible. 

In May, 1541, Henry VIII. issued a decree that the great volume of the 
Bible should be set up in every parish church in England, and all curates, 
not already furnished, were commanded to procure Bibles, and place them 
conveniently in their respective churches, and all the bishops were required 
to take especial care to see the said command put in force. "It was 
wonderful," says the old historian John Strype, "to see with what joy this 
book of God was received, not only among the learneder sort, but gene- 
rally all England over, among all the people; and with what greediness 
God's word was read, and what resort to places where the reading of it was." 

During the reign of Edward VI. (1547 — 1553) eleven impressions of the 
English Bible were published, but they were merely reprints of one or other 
of the editions mentioned above. 

5. The Geneva Bible. This was translated, with notes, by Miles Cover- 
dale and others, who during the reign of Mary fled to Geneva. On the- 
accession of Elizabeth, 1558, some returned, and others remained to finish 
the work, which appeared in 1560. This long continued to be the favorite 
Bible of the English Puritans and of the Scotch Presbyterians. Fifty im- 
pressions of it, at least, are known. 

6. The Bishop's Bible, which appeared in 1568, so called from Matthew 
Parker, archbishop of Canterbury, who employed others to prepare it. 

7. The Douat Bible, of which the New Testament was printed at 
Rheims 1 in 1582, and the Old at Douay2 in 1609—10. 

8. King Jamess Bible. We are now brought to our own translation. At 
the accession of James I., 1603, many complaints were made of the dis- 
crepancies then existing among the several versions of the Bible. At the 
great conference held in 1604, at Hampton Court, between the Established 
aud Puritan clergy, all parties agreeing in their disapprobation of the version 
of the Scriptures then most generally used, the king commissioned fifty-four 
men, the most learned in the universities and other places, to commence a 
new translation. At the same time he required the bishops to inform them- 
selves of all the learned men within their several dioceses, who had acquired 
especial skill in the Greek and Hebrew languages, and who had taken great 
pains in their private studies to investigate obscure passages and to correct 
mistakes in former English translations, and to charge them to communicate 
their observations to the persons thus employed to translate the whole Scrip- 
tures. 

Before the work was begun, seven of the persons nominated for it were 
either dead or declined to engage in the task; the remaining forty-seven 
were classed under six divisions, a certain portion of Scripture being assigned 
to each. They proceeded to their task at Oxford, Cambridge, and Westmin- 
ster, each individual translating the portion assigned to his division, and 
when all in any one division had finished, they met together, compared their 
several translations, and decided all differences, and settled upon what they 

l About 50 miles N. E. of Paris. 2 About 100 miles N <»f Paris. 



120 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. [ JAMES I. 

deemed the best translation. When the several divisions had finished, they 
all met together, and one and another by turns read the new version, while 
all the rest held in their hands either copies of the original or some valuable 
version. If any one objected to the translation of any passage, the reader 
stopped to allow time for discussion, comparison, and final decision. 

The labor appears to have commenced in the spring of 1604, and the re- 
sult was published in 1611, under the following title, " The Holy Bible, con- 
temning the Old Testament and the New, newly translated out of the Originall 
Tongues, and with the former Translations diligently compared and revised by his 
Majesties speciall CommandementP As a translation, this is generally most 
faithful, and an excellent specimen of the language of the time. Dr. Adam 
Clarke remarks, "The translators have seized the very spirit and soul of the 
original, and expressed this, almost everywhere, with pathos and energy: 
they have not only made a standard translation, but have made this transla- 
tion the standard of our language." This is eminently true, for in all human 
probability this translation will never be changed. 

Still, strict truth and justice require us to say that there are some defects 
and errors, in our present version, which a more advanced state of biblical 
science enables us to detect. The translators had not access to the various 
sources of biblical criticism and elucidation which we enjoy at the presen* 
day; such as the collation of ancient manuscripts and versions; the multi- 
plication of grammars and lexicons; the enlarged comparison of kindred 
dialects; and the researches of travellers into the geography, manners, cus- 
toms, and natural history of the East. 1 But after all, instead of dwelling upon 
errors and discrepancies, which are really unimportant, we must ever -won- 
der that there are so few, and admire the fidelity, the learning, and the wis- 
dom of the great and good men that executed the work. 2 

I have felt it a duty, in entering upon the reign of James I., when the present 
version of our Bible was made, to give this short historical view of the 
sacred volume, because, to say nothing of its divine origin, nothing of its 
inspired contents, nothing of its being the foundation of all morality, the 
groundwork of our religion, and our unerring rule of faith and practice, it has 
done so much for English mind, English literature, and English character. 
To say nothing of its heavenly influences, wherever faithfully and honestly fol- 
lowed, in elevating and blessing man, and hi removing every wicked practice 

i For some very able remarks on our present version, see Professor Bush's Introduction to his 
" Notes on Genesis." 

2 One of the greatest defects in our translation is a want of uniformity in rendering, both in regard 
to single words and to phrases. To give a few instances of what I mean. The Greek adverb tv6vs 
(euthus), which means "directly," "immediately," is translated in Matt. iii. 16, by " straightway ;" 
xiii. 20, by "anon;" xiii. 21, by "by and by;" Mark i. 12, by "immediately;" John xix. 34, by 
" forthwith." In all these places, " immediately" would have better expressed the original : " by 
and by'' is peculiarly infelicitous. So the verb ji.tgiij.varz (merimnate) in Matt. vi. 25, is rendered 
"take no thought;" in Phil. iv. 6, "be careful." The latter comes nearer the true meaning, which 
is, "be not distracted about," "be not over anxious about." In justice, however, to the translators, 
I snould say that in King James's day, the phrase "take no thought" had a much stronger meaning 
than it now has, being nearly equivalent to "let not your thoughts be unduly exercised." In many 
other cases also, the present translation fails to express the sense, owing to changes which our lan- 
guage has undergone. One more instance will suffice. David says, (Psalm cxix. 147,) "Iprevented 
Uic dawiirt.gor the morning," where "prevent" is used in its original Latin sense of "going be- 
fore," "anticipating," and in King James's day it was so understood. Now, we know, it is used in 
the 6en.se of to "hinder." This, though a most interesting subject of inquiry, cannot appropriately 
be pursued any furtlie-r here. 



1603-1625.] sackville. 121 

and institution that tend to crush, debase, and brutalize him, it has done 
more to refine the taste, to kindle the imagination, to enlarge the understand- 
ing, to give strength to the reasoning powers, and to supply the mind with 
images of beauty, tenderness, and sublimity, than all other books which have 
been borne down to vis on the stream of time : while our present permanent 
version has secured for our language what Tithonus begged of Aurora — 
immortality; and secured, besides, what he forgot to ask — perpetual youth. 
But above all and beyond all this, it is the great lever for elevating 

THE MORAL WORLD. 1 



THOMAS SACKVILLE. 1536—1608. 

Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, and ultimately Earl of Dorset and 
lord high treasurer of England, deserves consideration, if for no other reason, 
as the author of the first regular English tragedy, entitled " Ferrex and Por- 
rex." It is also called " The Tragedie of Gorboduc," and was acted before 
Queen Elizabeth in 1561. The story is this. Gorboduc, an ancient king of 
Britain, divided, in his lifetime, his kingdom between his sons Ferrex 
and Porrex. They quarrel for sovereignty, and Porrex kills his brother. 
Their mother Viden, who loved Ferrex best, revenged his death by entering 
Porrex's chamber in the night and murdering him in his sleep. The people, 
exasperated at this, rose in rebellion, and killed both Viden and Gorboduc. 
The nobility then assembled, collected an army, and destroyed the insurgents. 

Every act of this play is closed by something like the chorus of the Greek 
tragedy, namely, an ode in long-lined stanzas, drawing back the attention of 
the audience to the substance of what has just passed, and illustrating it by 
moral reflections. The following ode closes the third act, the moral beauties 
as well as the spirit of which must strike every reader. Sir Philip Sidney, 
in his "Defence of Poesy," says that this whole tragedy is "full of notable 
morality." 

1 I cannot but give room to the following just and beautiful remarks of Mrs. Ellis, in her work en- 
titled the " Poetry of Life :"— 

" With our established ideas of beauty, grace, pathos, and sublimity, either concentrated in the 
minutest point, or extended to the widest range, we can derive from the Scriptures a fund of gratifi- 
cation not to be found in any other memorial of tbe past or present time. From the worm that gro- 
vels in the du3t beneath our feet, to the track of the leviathan in the foaming deep— from the moth 
that corrupts the secret treasure, to the eagle that soars above his eyrie in the clouds — from the wild 
ass in the desert, to the lamb within the shepherd's fold— from the consuming locust, to the cattle on 
a thousand hills— from the rose of Sharon, to the cedar of Lebanon— from the clear crystal stream, 
gushing forth out of the flinty rock, to the wide waters of the deluge— from the barren waste, to the 
fruitful vineyard, and the land flowing with milk and honey — from the lonely path of the wanderer, 
to the gatherer of a mighty multitude— from the tear that falls in secret, to the din of battle and the 
shout of a triumphant host— from the solitary in the wilderness, to the satrap on the throne— from 
the mourner clad in his sackcloth, to the prince in purple robes— from the gnawings of the worm 
that dieth not, to the seraphic vision of the blessed— from the still small voice, to the thunders of 
Omnipotence — from the depths of hell, to the regions of eternal glory, there is no degree of beauty 
or deformity, no tendency to good or evil, no shade of darkness or gleam of light, which does not 
come within the cognizance of the Holy Scriptures ; and, therefore, there is no expression or con- 
ception of the mind that may not here find a corresponding picture; no thirst for excellence that 
here may not meet with its full supply; and no condition of humanity excluded from the unlimited 
scope of adaptation and sympathy comprehended in the language and spirit of the BiW " 

11 



122 SACKVILLE. [JAMES I 

The lust of kingdom knows no sacred faith, 
No rule of reason, no regard of right, 
No kindly love, no fear of Heaven's wrath : 
But with contempt of God's and man's despight, 

Through bloody slaughter doth prepare the ways 
To fatal sceptre, and accursed reign : 
The son so loathes the father's lingering days, 
Nor dreads his hand in brother's blood to stain ! 

O wretched prince ! nor dost thou yet record 
The yet fresh murders done within the land 
Of thy forefathers, when the cruel sword 
Bereft Morgain his life with cousin's hand ! 

Thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race, 
Whose murderous hand imbrued with guiltless blood, 
Asks vengeance still before the Heaven's face, 
With endless mischief on the cursed brood. 

The wicked child thus brings to woful sire 
The mournful plaints, to waste his weary life : 
Thus do the cruel flames of civil fire 
Destroy the parted reign with hateful strife : 
And hence doth spring the well, from which doth flow 
The dead black streams of mourning, plaint, and woe. 

But the poem by which Sackville is best known, is entitled " The Mirror 
for Magistrates." In it, most of the illustrious but unfortunate characters of 
English history, from the Conquest to the end of die fourteenth century, are 
made to pass in review before the poet, who, conducted by Sorrow, descends, 
like Dante, into the infernal regions. Each character recites his own misfor- 
tunes in a separate soliloquy. But Sackville finished only the preface called 
the « Induction," and one legend, die Life of the Duke of Buckingham. He 
left the completion of the whole to Richard Baldwyne and George Ferrers. 
These called in others to aid them, and the whole collection or set of poems 
was published in 1559, with tiiis title, "A Mirror for Magistrates, wherein 
may be seen, by example of others, with how grievous plagues vices are 
punished, and how frail and how unstable worldly prosperity is found, even 
of those whom fortune seemeth most highly to favor." 

The whole poem is one of a very remarkable kind for the age, and the 
part executed by Sackville exhibits a strength of description and a power of 
drawing allegorical characters scarcely inferior to Spenser, and had he com- 
pleted the whole, and with the same power as that exhibited in the com 
mencement, he would have ranked among the first poets of England. 



ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS IN HELL. 

And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
With tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent 
To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament 
With thoughtful care ; as she that, all in vain, 
Would wear and waste continually in pain : 

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, 

Whiil'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, 



1603-1625.] sackville. 123 

So was her mind continually hi fear, 

Tost and tormented with the tedious thought 

Of those detested crimes which she had wrought ; 

With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, 

Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 

Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, 
With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there ; 
Benumb'd with speech ; and with a ghastly look, 
Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, 
His cap borne up with staring of his hair ; 
'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread, 
And fearing greater dangers than was need. 

And, next, within the entry of this lake, 

Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire : 

Devising means how she may vengeance take ; 

Never in rest, till she have her desire ; 

But frets within so far forth with the fire 

Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 

To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be. 

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, 
Had show'd herself, as next in order set, 
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 
Till in our eyes another sight we met ; 
When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, 
Rueing, alas, upon the woful plight 
Of Misery, that next appeard in sight : 

His face was lean, and some-deal pined away, 
And eke his hands consumed to the bone ; 
But, what his body was, I cannot say, 
For, on his carcase raiment had he none, 
Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; 
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
His chief defence against the winter's blast: 

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, 
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, 
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 
As on the which full daint'ly would he fare ; 
His drink, the running stream ; his cup, the bare 
Of his palm closed ; his bed, the hard cold ground : 
To this poor life was Misery ybound. 

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, 

With tender ruth on him, and on his fears, 

In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; 

And, by and by, another shape appears 

Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers ; 

His knuckles knobb'd, his flesh deep dinted in, 

With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin: 

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun 
To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, 
But he is up, and to his work yrun ; 



124 SACKVILLE. [JAMES I, 

But let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
And with foul dark never so much disguise 
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; 
Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on, 
Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
Of high renown; but as a living death, 
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath : 

And next in order sad, Old-Age we found : 
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind • 
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, 
As on the place where nature him assign'd 
To rest, when that the sisters had untwined 
His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
The fleeting course of fast declining life : 

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint 
Rue with himself his end approaching fast, 
And all for nought his wretched mind torment 
With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past, 
And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste ; 
Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, 
And to be young again of Jove beseek ! 

Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed ; 
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four ; 
With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; 
His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, 
His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door ; 
Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath ; 
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 

And fast by him pale Malady was placed: 
Sore sick in bed, her color all foregone; 
Bereft of stomach, savor, and of taste, 
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone ; 
Her breath corrupt ; her keepers every one 
Abhorring her ; her sickness past recure, 
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. 

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see ! 

We turn'd our look, and on the other side 

A grisly shape of Famine mought we see: 

With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried 

And roar 'd for meat, as she should there have died j 

Her body thin and bare as any bone, 

Whereto was left nought but the case alone. 

And that, alas, was gnawen every where, 
All full of holes ; that I me mought refrain 
From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, 
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, 



1603-1625.] overbuy. 125 

When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain 
Her starven corpse, that rather seeufd a shade 
Than any substance of a creature made : 

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay : 

Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw ; 

With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay 

Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, 

But eats herself as she that hath no law ; 

Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain, 

Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. 

Lastly, stood War. in glittering arms yclad, 

With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued : 

In his right hand a naked sword he had, 

That to the hilts 'was all with blood imbrued ; 

And in Ins left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 

Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 

He razed towns and threw down towers and all: 

Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower 'd 
In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) 
He overwhelmed, and all their fame devour'd, 
Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, 
Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd ; 
His face forehew'd with wounds ; and by his side 
There hang his targe, with gashes deep and wide. 



SIR THOMAS OVERBURY. 1581—1613. 

Sm Thomas Overbtjry, a miscellaneous writer, and " one of the most 
finished gentlemen about the court" of James I., is well known by the 
tragic circumstances of his death. Born of an ancient family in Glouces- 
tershire, after taking his degree at the University of Oxford, he entered the 
Middle Temple as a law student. But his inclinations turning more to 
polite literature, he made an effort to advance his fortune at the court, and 
was successful. But opposing the infamous Countess of Essex in one of 
her criminal schemes, he was, by her influence, thrown into the Tower, and 
was soon after taken off by poison administered to him by her means, with 
the knowledge of her husband. The murder, though committed on the 13th 
of September, 1613, was not discovered till two years after, when all was 
brought to light, and four of the parties concerned were executed. But 
James, to his lasting disgrace, pardoned the two principals, the Countess of 
Essex and her husband, that base favorite of James, the Earl of Somerset. 

The murder of this accomplished man is one of the most disgraceful 
passages in the history of England, and the sympadiy which his fate excited 
is demonstrated by the many elegies and tributes of grief which were 
poured forth from all quarters "on the untimely death of Sir Thomas Over- 
bury, poysoned in the Tower." Sir Thomas is known in letters, both as a 
poet and prose writer. In the former character, his chief productions are his 
once famous poem called « The Wife," and a smaller one called " The Choice 

11* 



126 OVEKBURT. [JAM! 5 I. 

of a Wife." The " Wife" is didactic in its nature, and though containing 
many good precepts, has little grace, fancy, or ornament. Two verses will 
suffice to give an idea of his manner : — 

Give me, next good, an understanding wife, 

By nature wise, not learned by much art ; 
Some knowledge on her part will, all her life 

More scope of conversation impart, 
Besides her inborn virtue fortify ; 
They are most firmly good that best know why. 

Woman's behavior is a surer bar 

Than is their no ; that fairly doth deny 
Without denying ; thereby kept they are 

Safe ev'n from hope : — in part to blame is she, 
Which hath without consent been only tried ; 
He comes too near, who comes to be denied. 

But as a prose writer, Sir Thomas Overbury takes higher rank. His Cha- 
racters or Witty Descriptions of the Properties of Sundry Persons," display 
the fertile and ingenious character of his mind. Of the following beautiful 
picture of "A Fair and Happy Milkmaid," a judicious critic remarks: "We 
hardly know any passage in English prose which inspires the mind of the 
reader with so many pleasing recollections, and which spreads so calm and 
purifying a delight over the spirit, as it broods over the idea of the innocent 
girl whose image Sir Thomas has here bodied forth : — ' It will scent all the 
year long of June, like a new-made hay-cock.' " 

A FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID 

Is a country wench, that is so far from making herself beautiful 
by art, that one look of hers is able to put all face-physic out of 
countenance. She knows a fair look is but a dumb orator to com- 
mend virtue, therefore minds it not. All her excellencies stand 
in her so silently, as if they had stolen upon her without her 
knowledge. The lining of her apparel, which is herself, is far 
better than outsides of tissue ; for though she be not arrayed in 
the spoil of the silkworm, she is decked in innocence, a far better 
wearing. She doth not, with lying long in bed, spoil both her 
complexion and conditions : nature hath taught her too, immode- 
rate sleep is rust to the soul ; she rises therefore with Chanticlere, 
her dame's cock, and at night makes the lamb her curfew. In 
milking a cow, and straining the teats through her fingers, it 
seems that so sweet a milk-press makes the milk whiter or 
sweeter ; for never came almond-glore or aromatic ointment on 
her palm to taint it. The golden ears of corn fall and kiss her 
feet when she reaps them, as if they wished to be bound and led 
prisoners by the same hand that felled them. Her breath is her 
own, which scents all the year long of June, like a new-made hay- 
cock. She makes her hand hard with labor, and her heart soft 
with pity ; and when winter evenings fall early, sitting at her 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 12T 

merry wheel, she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune. 
She doth all things with so sweet a grace, it seems ignorance will 
not suffer her to do ill, being her mind is to do well. She bestows 
her year's wages at next fair, and in choosing her garments, counts 
no bravery in the world like decency. The garden and bee-hive 
are all her physic and surgery, and she lives the longer for it. 
She dares go alone and unfold sheep in the night, and fears no 
manner of ill, because she means none ; yet, to say truth, she is 
never alone, but is still accompanied with old songs, honest 
thoughts, and prayers, but short ones ; yet they have their effi- 
cacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations. 
Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them ; only a 
Friday's dream is all her superstition ; that she conceals for fear 
of anger. Thus lives she, and all her care is, she may die in the 
spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-she. ,L 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 15G4— 1616. 

Far from the sun and summer gale, 
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, 
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face : the dauntless child 
Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled. 
" This pencil take," she said, " whose colors clear 
Richly paint the vernal year : 
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy I 
This can unlock the gates of joy; 
Of horror that, and thrilling fears, 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." 

Gray's Progress of Poest. 

Wilt.! am Shakspeare, 1 the great dramatic poet, not of England only, but 
of the world, was born at Stratford on the Avon, in the county of Warwick, 
April 23, 1564. Of his early life, of his education, of his personal appear- 
ance, manners, and habits, we know scarcely any thing. " No letter of his 
writing," says Hallam, " no record of his conversation, no character of him 
drawn with any fulness by a contemporary, can be produced." He was sent 
for a short period to the free-school at Stratford, where, in the language if Ben 
Jouson, " he acquired small Latin and less Greek." But that he was early a 

1 Read — Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," full of most instructive and interesting matter- 
Johnson's "Preface to Shakspeare," Hazlitt's " Characters of Shakspeare's Plays," Campbell's "Essay 
on English Poetry," Richardson's "Analysis of Shakspeare," Schlegel's "Lectures on Dramatic Litera- 
ture," Pope's "Preface to Shakspeare," Dodd's "Beauties," Price's "Wisdom and Genius of Shaks- 
peare." The best family edition is Bowdler's " Family Shakspeare,"- 8 vols. 8vo, recently printed 
n one large octavo. The best critical edition is the variorum of Isaac Reed, London, 1813, 23 vols- 
with the Prolegomena and Addenda. "The proof-sheets of this edition were corrected by Mr. Har- 
ris, Librarian of the Royal Institution." — Lowndes. Especially, read Mrs. Jameson's " Characteristics 
of Women, moral, political, and historical," the most tasteful and discriminating analysis of Shans- 
peare's female characters ever written. The preliminary remarks to each play, and the notes iu 
Knight's "Pictorial Shakspeare," are also replete with instruction. 



128 



SHAKSPEAKE. 



[JAMES I. 






very earnest, though, it may be, an irregular student, no one can doubt : the 
numerous felicitous allusions, throughout his dramas, to the history and mytho- 
logy of the ancients, prove that, if not a critical scholar, he was deeply imbued 
with the true spirit of classical literature, and possessed a most discriminating 
taste to seize upon their beauties, and make them his own. 1 In 1582, when 
but eighteen years of age, he married Anne Hathaway, a farmer's daughter, 
who was seven years older than himself, and who resided near Stratford. In 
this place he continued for a few years, probably engaged in the business of 
his father, that of a woolstapler; but an increasing family and pressing wants 2 
obliged him to move beyond the limits of Stratford for subsistence and for 
fame; and, accordingly, in 1586 or 1587 he removed to London 3 On his 
arrival at London, his first employment was that of an actor, a profession 
which he continued to exercise more or less for at least seventeen years. He 
soon, however, began to write for the stage, his first effort, " Pericles, Prince 
of Tyre," being written about 1590 ; 4 and such was the unexampled suocess 
of his unequalled dramas, that he soon became proprietor of several theatres, 



1 " If it were asked from what sources Shakspeare drew his abundant streams of wisdom, carrying 
with their current the fairest and most unfading flowers of poetry, I should be tempted to say, that 
he had what would now be considered a very reasonable portion of Latin ; he was not wholly igno- 
rant of Greek ; he had a knowledge of French so as to read it with ease, and I believe not less of the 
Italian. He was habitually conversant in the chronicles of his country. He lived with wise and 
highly cultivated men; with Jonson, Essex, and Southampton, in familiar friendship. He had 
deeply imbibed the Scbiptures : and his own most acute, profound, active, and original geniu3 
must take the lead in the solution." Croft's Preface to his "Aphorisms from Shakspeare." 

2 I have said nothing of the traditional story of his deer-stealing, because there is not a particle of 
historical evidence of its truth. 

3 "It is impossible to contemplate Shakspeare's removal from his native town, without pausing to 
reflect upon the consequences that followed that event. Had he not left his humble occupation in 
Warwickshire, how many matchless lessons of wisdom and morality, how many unparalleled dis- 
plays of wit and imagination, of pathos and sublimity, had been buried in oblivion ; pictures o* 
emotion, of character, of passion, more profound than mere philosophy had ever conceived, more 
impressive than poetry had ever yet embodied." Drake's " Shakspeare and his Times," i. 412. 

4 The following is a chronological list of his plays, taken from Drake's " Shakspeare and his 
Times," omitting of course Titus Andronicus : 

Chronological Table. 
1590. 19. Much Ado about Nothing, . . . 1599. 



1. Pericles, .... 

2. Comedy of Errors, 
%. Love's Labor's Lost, . 

4. King Henry the Sixth, Part I. . 

5. King Henry the Sixth, Part II. 
0. Midsummer-Night's Dream, • 
y. Borneo and Juliet, 
& Taming of the Shrew, 
9. Two Gentlemen of Verona, 

i0. King Richard the Third, . 

1 1. King Richard the Second, . 

12. King Henry the Fourth, Part I. 

13. King Henry the Fourth, Part II. 

14. The Merchant of Venice, . ' . 

15. Hamlet, 

16. King John, .... 
:•/. Ail's "Well that Ends Well, . 
18. King Henry the Fifth, 

Trough Titus Andronicus is bound up in all the editions of Shakspeare, yet there is no probability 
tdat he wrote it. Drake says it should be expunged from every edition of the great bard. 



1591. 


20. As You Like It, . 


1600. 


. 1591. 


21. Merry Wives of Windsor, . 


. 1601. 


1592. 


22. Troilus and Cressida, 


1601. 


. 1592. 


23. King Henry the Eighth, 


. 1602. 


1593. 


24. Timon of Athens, . . . 


1602. 


. 1593. 


25. Measure for Measure, . 


• 1603. 


1594. 


26. King Lear, 


1604. 


. 1595. 


27. Cymbeline, .... 


. 1605. 


1595. 


28. Macbeth, 


1606. 


. 1596. 


29. Julius Caesar, 


. 1607. 


1596. 


30. Antony and Cleopatra, . 


1608. 


. 1596. 


31. Coriolanus, .... 


. 1609. 


1597. 


32. The Winter's Tale, . 


1610. 


. 1597. 


33. The Tempest, 


. 1611. 


1598. 


34. Othello, 


1612. 


. 1598. 


35. Twelfth Night, 


. 1613 


1599. 







1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 129 

from which he received a very ample income — estimated as equivalent tj 
about five thousand dollars of our money now. Though he lived in familiar 
intercourse with the nobles, the wits, and the poets of his day, he looked for- 
ward to the time when he should retire to his native town, and with this 
view he purchased New Place, the principal house in Stratford, with more 
than a hundred acres of ground attached. "The year 1612 has been assigned 
as the date of his final retirement to the country. In the fulness of his fame, 
with a handsome competency, and before age had chilled the enjoyment of 
life, the poet returned to his native town to spend the remainder of his dayg 
among the quiet scenes and the friends of his youth. Four years were spent 
byShakspeare in this dignified retirement, and the history of literature scarcely 
presents another such picture of calm felicity and satisfied ambition. He died 
on the 23d of April, 1616, having just completed his fifty-second year. His 
widow survived him seven years. He had three children, one son and two 
daughters. The former died in 1596. Both the latter were married, and 
one had three sons, but all these died without issue, and there now remains 
no lineal representative of the great poet." 

So many authors having written upon Shakspeare and his dramas, some of 
whom are referred to in the note, it is deemed unnecessary here to go 
into a critical examination of his character. Indeed it wouid be hardly pos- 
sible to say any thing new. The subject seems to be exhausted. And to 
write in eulogy would be somewhat presumptuous, when he has so exaui- 
sitely pronounced his own:— 

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 

To throw a perfume on the violet, 

To smooth the ice, or add another hue 

Unto the rainbow, or with taper light 

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, 

Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. 

One of his contemporaries, Ben Jonson, thus characterizes him : — " I loved 
the man, and do honor to his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. 
He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature : had an excellent 
fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions ; wherein he flowed with that 
tacility that sometimes it was necessary it should be stopped. His wit was 
in his own power; would the rule of it had been so too! But he redeemed 
his vices with his virtues ; there was even more in him to be praised than 
pardoned." 

But Dryden has portrayed his genius in the following nervous and masteny 
lines, which have been served up to us in a diluted state by many a modern 
critic : — " To begin, then, with Shakspeare. He was the man who, of all modern 
and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All 
the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not labo- 
riously, but luckily : when he describes any thing, you more than see it — you 
feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the 
greater commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the specta- 
cles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards and found her there. I can- 
not say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, I should do him injury to com. 
pare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat and insipid ; 
his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. 
But he is always great when some great occasion is presented to him : no 
I 



130 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES L 

man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise him- 
self as high above the rest of poets, 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.l 

The consideration of this, made Mr. Hales of Eaton say, ' that there was no 
subject of which any poet ever wrote, but he would produce it much better 
done in Shakspeare,' " 

The difficulty of making selections from Shakspeare must be obvious to 
every one. So numerous and diversified are his characters, so varied his 
style, suited to every description of poetry and of fiction, and so many gems 
of wit, humor, satire, and pathos, everywhere present themselves, that the 
mind is perplexed what to choose. But we must begin. 

THE THREE CASKETS. 
Portia, a beautiful and accomplished heiress, is sought in marriage by a 
large number of suitors, whose fate is to be determined by the choice they 
make of one of three caskets, " gold, silver, and base lead." The following 
are the comments of three of the suitors : — 

Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco. 

Por. Now make your choice. 

Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears ;— 
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. 
The second, silver, which this promise carries ; — 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. 
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt f — 
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath.- — 
How shall I know if I do choose the right ? 

Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince ; 
If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 

Mor. Some god direct my judgment ! Let me see, 
I will survey the inscriptions back again : 
"What says this leaden casket ? 
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath. 
Must give — For what 1 ? for lead? hazard for lead? 
This casket threatens : Men, that hazard all, 
Do it in hope of fair advantages : 
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; 
I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. 
What says the silver, with her virgin hue ? 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves. 
As much as he deserves ? — Pause, there, Morocco, 
And weigh thy value with an even hand : 
If thou be"st rated by thy estimation, 
Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 
May not extend so far as to the lady ; 
And yet to be afeard of my deserving 
Were but a weak disabling of myself. 
As much as I deserve ! — Why, that's the lady ; 
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 
In graces, and in qualities of breeding ; 
But, more than tiiese, in love I do deserve. 

1 As the cypresses are wont to do among the slender shrubs. 
8 That is, as gross as the dull metal. 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 131 

What if I stray'd no further, but chose here ? — 
Let's see once more this saying graved in gold. 
Who rhooseth me, shall gain what many men desire 
Why, that's the lady ; all the world desires her : 

— -Deliver me the key ; 

Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 

Por. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, 
Then I am yours. [ Unlocking the golden casket. 

Mor. What have we here ? 
A carrion death, within whose empty eye 
There is a written scroll ! I'll read the writing 

All that glisters is not gold ; 

Often have you heard that told : 

Many a man his life hath sold, 

But my outside to behold : 

Gilded tombs do worms infold. 

Had you been as wise as bold, 

Young in limbs, in judgment old, 

Your answer had not been inscroll'd : 

Fare you well ; your suit is cold. 
Cold, indeed; and labor lost: 
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost. — 
Portia, adieu ! I have too grieved a heart 
To take a tedious leave : thus losers part [Exit. 

Enter Prince of Arragon. 

Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince : 
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, 
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized ; 
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
You must be gone from hence immediately. 

Ar. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things : 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage ; lastly, 
If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
Immediately to leave you, and be gone. 

Por. To these injunctions every one doth swear, 
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 

Ar. And so have I address'd 1 me : Fortune now 
To my heart's hope ! — Gold, silver, and base lead. 
Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he hath : 
You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. 
What says the golden chest ? ha ! let me see : — 
Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men desire. 
What many men desire. — That many may be meant 
By the fool multitude, that choose by show, 
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, 
Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, 
Builds in the weather, on the outward wall, 
Even in the force 2 and road of casualty. 

1 Address'd me— prepared me; that is, I have prepared myself by the same ceremonies. 

2 The power. 



132 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. 

I will not choose what many men desire, 
Because I will not jump with common spirits, 
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves : 
And well said too : For who shall go about 
To cozen fortune, and be honorable 
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
To wear an undeserved dignity. 
O, that estates, degrees, and offices 
Were not derived corruptly ! and that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! 
How many then should cover, that stand bare ? 
How many be commanded, that command ? 
How much low peasantry would then be glean'd 
From the true seed of honor'? and how much honor 
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times, 
To be new varnish'd ? J Well, but to my choice : 
Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves : 
I will assume desert ; — Give me a key for this, 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

Por. Too long a pause for that which you find there. 

Jhr. What's here 1 the portrait of a blinking idiot, 
Presenting me a schedule ? I will read it. 
How much unlike art thou to Portia ! 
How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings ! 
Who chooseth me, shall have as much as he deserves : 
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head 1 
Is that my prize ? are my deserts no better 1 

Por. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices, 
And of opposed natures. 

JLr. What is here ? 

The fire seven times tried this ; 
Seven times tried that judgment is, 
That did never choose amiss : 
Some there be, that shadows kiss : 
Such have but a shadows bliss : 
There be fools alive, I wis, 2 
Silver d o'er : and so was this. 

Still more fool I shall appear 

By the time I linger here: 

With one fool's head I came to woo, 

But I go away with two. — 

Sweet, adieu ! I'll keep my oath, 

Patiently to bear my wroth. 3 

Enter Bassanio. 
Bass. So may the outward shows be least themselves ; 
The world is still deceived with ornament. 
In law what plea so tainted and corrupt, 
But, being season'd with a gracious voice, 

l The meaning is, how much meanness would be found among the great, and how much greatness 
among the mean. 2 I know. 3 My misfortune. 



1C03-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 133 

Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 

What damned error, but some sober brow 

Will bless it, and approve it 1 with a text, 

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 

There is no vice so simple, but assumes 

Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. 

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars ; 

Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk? 

And these assume but valor's excrement 5 

To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, 

And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; 

Which therein works a miracle in nature, 

Making them lightest that wear most of it : 

So are those crisped 2 snaky golden locks, 

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, 

Upon supposed fairness, often known 

To be the dowry of a second head, 

The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. 

Thus ornament is but the guiled 3 shore 

To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 

Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word, 

The seeming truth which cunning times put on 

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee : 

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 

'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead. 

Which rather threat'nest, than dost promise aught, 

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, 

And here choose I : Joy be the consequence ! 

Opening the leaden casket. 

What find I here ? 

Fair Portia's counterfeit? 4 

Here's the scroll, 

The continent and summary of my fortune 

You that choose not by the view, 

Chance as fair, and choose as true ! 

Since this fortune falls to you, 

Be content and seek no new. 

If you be well pleased with this, 

And hold your fortune for your bliss, 

Turn you where your lady is, 

And claim her with a loving kiss. 
Por. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am : though, for myself alone, 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better; yet, for you, 
I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
More rich; 
That only to stand high on your account, 

1 Justify it. 2 Curled. 

8 The treacherous shore. i Counterfeit here means a likeness, a resemblance. 

]2 5 That la the "beard". 



134 SHAKSPEARE. [ JAMES IJ 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account : but the full sum of me 
Is sum of something : which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschooPd, unpractised: 
Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; and happier than this, 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours 
Is now converted : but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same myself, 
Are yours, my lord; I give them with this ring; 
Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
Let it presage the ruin of your love, 
And be my vantage to exclaim on you. 

Merchant of Venice, Acta II. and III. 

THE SEVEN AGES. 
The banished duke, with Jaques and other lords, are in the forest of Arden, 
sitting at their plain repast. Orlando, who had been wandering in the forest 
in quest of food for an old servant, Adam, who could " go no farther," sud- 
denly comes upon the party, and with his sword drawn, exclaims, 

Orlando. Forbear, I say; 

He dies that touches any of this fruit, 
Till I and my affairs are answer'd. 

Jaques. An you will not 
Be answer'd with reason, I must die. 

Duke Sen. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force, 
More than your force move us to gentleness. 

Orla. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 

Duke Sen. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. 

Orla. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you; 
I thought that all things had been savage here; 
And therefore put I on the countenance 
Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are, 
That in this desert inaccessible, 
Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, 
And know what 'tis to pity, and be pitied ; 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 

Duke Sen. True it is that we have seen better days ; 
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ; 
And sat at good men's feasts ; and wiped our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd : 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 135 

And take upon command ! what help we have 
That to your wanting may be minister'd. 

Orla. Then but forbear your food a little while, 
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, 
And give it food. There is an old poor man, 
Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limp'd in pure love; till he be first sufficed, — 
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, — 
I will not touch a bit. 

Duke Sen. Go find him out, 
And we will nothing waste till your return. 

Orla. I thank ye: and be bless'd for your good comfort [Exit 

Duke Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy : 
This wide and universal theatre 
Presents more woful pageants than the scene 
Wherein we play in. 

Jaq. All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : 
And then, the whining school-boy with his satchel, 
And shining morning-face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school : And then the lover ; 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow : Then, a soldier ; 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 

Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, the justice ; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 2 
Full of wise saws and modern 3 instances, 
And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper 'd pantaloon ; 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side : 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion : 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 

As You Like It, Act II. Scene VII. 

clarence's dream. 

The Duke of Clarence, having been imprisoned in the Tower, for the pur 
pose of being murdered, by his brother Richard III., thus relates to Sir 
Robert Brakenbury, the lieutenant of the Tower, his dream of the preceding 
night : — 

1 At your command. 

2 In Shakspeare's time beards were of different cuts, according to different characters and profea 
ttons. The soldier had one fashion, the judge another, &c. 3 Trite, common instances 



136 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES I. 

Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day? 

Clarence. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
That as I am a Christian faithful man, 1 
I would not spend another such a night, 
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; 
So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you tell me. 

Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the Tower, 
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ; 
And, in my company, my brother Gloster: 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 
Upon the hatches ; thence we look*d toward England, 
And cited up a thousand heavy times, 
During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
That had befall'n us. As we paced along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
Methought, that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, 
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown ! 
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; 

A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon ; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued 2 jewels, 

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. 

Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and, in those holes, 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept 

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, 

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. 

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death 
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To seek the empty, vast, and wandering air ; 
But smother'd it within my panting bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? 

Clar. O, no, my dream was length en'd after life; 
O, then began the tempest to my soul ! 

1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman which poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger soul, 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ; 
Who cried aloud, What scourge for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ? 
And so he vanish'd : Then came wandering by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 

1 That is, not an infidel. 2 Invaluable. 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 137 

Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek'd out aloud, 
Clarence, is come — -false, fleeting, 1 perjured Clarenct — 
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; 
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments ! 
With that, methought a legion of foul fiends 
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, 
I trembling waked, and, for a season after, 
Could not believe but that I was in hell : 
Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you ; 
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 

Clar. Brakenbury, I have done these things, — 
That now give evidence against my soul, 
For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me ! 

God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, 
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, 

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone : 

0, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children ! 

Richard III., Act I. Scene IV. 

FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 

Cardinal Wolsey. after his fall from the favor of Henry VIII., thus solilo» 
^uize*, and afterwards confers with his servant Cromwell : — 

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : 
The third day, comes a frost, a lulling frost ; 
And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
Tins many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, 1 hate ye ; 

1 feel my heart new open'd: 0, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! 
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. — 

Enter Cromwell, amazediy. 
Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 

Wol. What, amazed 

At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder 

1 Fleeting is the same as changing sides. 
12* 



138 SHAKSPEARE. [JAMES 

A great man should decline 1 Nay, and you weep, 
T am fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your grace? 

Wol. Why, well ; 

Fever so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders, 
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honor : 

'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 

Crom. I am glad, your grace has made that right use of it 

Wol. I hope I have ; I am able now, methinks, 
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) 
To endure more miseries, and greater far, 
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
What news abroad? 

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, 

Is your displeasure with the king. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor in your place. 

Wol. That's somewhat sudden: 

But he's a learned man. May he continue 
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice 
For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! l 
What more? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, 

Instalfd lord archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That's news indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, 

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view'd in open, as his queen, 
Going io chapel ; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. Cromwell, 
The king has gone beyond me, all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever : 
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors, 
Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; 

1 am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 

To be thy lord and master : Seek the king ; 

That sun I pray may never set ! I have told him 

What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee; 

Some little memory of me will stir him, 

(I know his noble nature,) not to let 

Thy hopeful service perish too : Good Cromwell, 



l The chancellor is the general guardian of orphans. 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 139 

Neglect him not, make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Cram. my lord, 

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master'? 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron. 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.— • 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me 
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. 
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee ; 
Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,— 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; ' 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't? 
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the kingf 

And, Pr'ythee, lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny ; 'tis the king's ; my robe, 

And my integrity to heaven, is all 

I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell, 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king, he would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 2 

Crom. Good sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. 

Henry Fill.. Act m. Scene n. 

QUEEN MAB, THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES. 3 

O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes 

1 Ambition here means a criminal and inordinate ambition, that endeavors to obtain honors by dis« 
honest means. 2 This sentence was really uttered by Wolsey. 

3 "The imagery which Shakspeare has employed in describing the persons, manners, and occupa- 
tions of the Fairies, will be deemed not less his peculiar offspring, nor inferior in beauty, novelty, 
and wildness of painting, to that which the magic of hia pencil has diffused over every other part of 
the visionary world."— Brake. 



140 SHAZSPEAEE. [JAMES I. 

In shapo no bigger than an agate-stone 

On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little atomies, 

Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; 

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider's web; 

The collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams ; 

Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; 

Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm, 

Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 

Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers, 

And in this state she gallops night by night, 

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; 

On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight ; 

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ; 

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. 

Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : 

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, 

Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 

Then dreams he of another benefice ! 

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 1 

Of healths five fathom deep ; 2 and then, anon, 

Drums in his ear. at which he starts and wakes; 

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab 

That plats the manes of horses in the night ; 

And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs 

Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. 

Romeo and Juliet, Act I. Scene IV. 

LIFE AND DEATH WEIGHED. 

To be, or not to be, that is the question :— 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them'? To die, — to sleep, — 
No more ; and by a sleep to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die ; — to sleep ; — 
To sleep ! — perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

1 Swords made of Spanish steel were thought the best. 
Ss That is, drinking deeply each other's health. 



1603-1625.] SHAKSPEARE. 141 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,' 

Must give us pause : — There's the respect 2 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin'? Who would fardels bear, 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death, — 

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, — puzzles the will, 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all , 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. 

Hamlet, Act m. Scene 1- 

MERCY. 

The quality of mercy is not strain' d ; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. 
But mercy is above the scepter'd sway; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for .nercy ; 
And that same prayer doth tea zh us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

Merchant of Venice, Act IV. Scene T. 

ACTIVITY NECESSARY TO KEEP FAME BRIGHT. 3 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, 
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : 

1 Turmoil, busUe. 2 There's the consideration. 

8 This admirable speech of Ulysses to Achilles, to induce him to leave his tent, and come again into 
the field of action, though not much read, is scarcely inferior to any thing in Shakspeare. 



142 bHAKSPEARE. [ JAMES L 

Those scraps are good deeds past : which are devour'd 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon 

As done : Perseverance, dear my lord, 

Keeps honor bright : To have done, is to hang 

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail 

In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; 

For honor travels in a strait so narrow, 

Where one but goes abreast : keep then the path ; 

For emulation hath a thousand sons, 

That one by one pursue : If you give way, 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by, 

And leave you hindmost ; — 

Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, 

Lie there for pavement to die abject rear, 

0"er-run and trampled on : Then what they do in present, 

Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours : 

For time is like a fashionable host, 

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand ; 

And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he would fly, 

Grasps in the comer : Welcome ever smiles, 

And farewell goes out siglung. 0, let not virtue seek 

Remuneration for the thing it was ; 

For beauty, wit, 

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, 

Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 

To envious and calumniating time. 

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, — 

That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds, 

Though they are made and moulded of things past ; 

And give to dust, that is a little gilt, 1 

More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. 

The present eye praises the present object* 

Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, 

That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax ; 

Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 

Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, 

And still it might : and yet it may again, 

If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive, 

And case thy reputation in thy tent ; 

Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, 

Made emulous missions 2 'mongst the gods themselves, 

And drave great Mars to faction. 

Troilua and Cressida, Act IH. Scene IL 
THE COMMONWEALTH OF BEES. 



So work the honey bees : 

Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach 
The act 3 of order to a peopled kingdom. 
They have a king, and officers of sorts : 4 



t t>7ist that ii a little gilt, means, ordinary performances ostentatiously displayed, and lauded by the 
6i\or of friends. Gilt o'er-dustid, means, splendid actions of preceding ages, the remembrance of 
which is weakened bv time 

2 Emulous missions refers to the machinery of Homer, which makes the deities descend from heaven 
to engage on either side. 3 Law. 4 That is, of different degrees. 



11*03-1025.] BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 143 

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home ; 
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ; 
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ; 
Which pillage they with merry march bring home 
To the tent-royal of their emperor: 
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys 
The singing masons building roofs of gold ; 
The civil ! citizens kneading up the honey ; 
The poor mechanic porters crowding in 
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ; 
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, 
Delivering o'er to executors 2 pale 
The lazy yawning drone. 

Henry V., Act I. Scene II. 



BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 



These names, united in their lives by friendship and confederate genius, 
have always been considered together ; for they wrote together, their works 
were published together, noiTis it possible now to assign to each his specific 
share of their joint labors. Some of the productions of each, however, are dis- 
tinctively known. ' • 

Francis Beaumont was born in Leicestershire, in 1586. He studied at Ox- 
ford, and thence passed to the Inner Temple ; but the law had few charm's for 
him, and, in conjunction with lifs frtend Fletcher, he devoted his short' life to 
the drama, and died in 1616, in the thirtieth year of his age. 

John Fletcuer was the son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, bishop of London, and 
Was born in Utat city in 1576. He was educated at Cambridge : little, how 
ever, is known of his life. He survived his coadjutor nine years, dying of the 
plague in 1625. 

The plays of Beaumont and Fletcher consist of tragedies, comedies, and 
mixed pieces. That they have many and great merits is undoubtedly true; 
but there are two things which will ever be a bar to their being generally 
read : one is, that they have not that truthfulness to nature which alone can 
permanently please ; and die other is, that they are filled with so much that is 
repulsive to a delicate and virtuous mind. Still, as has been justly remarked, 
a proper selection from the works of these dramatists would make a volume 
of refined sentiment, and of lofty and sweet poetry, combined with good sense, 
humor, and pathos. Tn lyrics they have not been surpassed, not even by 
Shakspeare or Milton ; and to these, therefore, we shall confine our extracts.3 

ADDRESS TO MELANCHOLY. 

Hence, all you vain delights; 

As short as are the nights ; 

Wherein you spend your folly ; 

There's nought in this life sweet, 

If man were wise to see't, -— , ^ 

l Sober, grave. 2 Executioners. 

» Read— Hazlitt's " Age of .Elizabeth," and Lamb's " Specimens of Dramatic Poets." 



144 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. [JAMES I. 

But only melancholy ; 

Oh, sweetest melancholy, 

Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, 

A sight that piercing mortifies; 

A look that's fasten'd to the ground, 

A tongue chain'd up without a sound ; 

Fountain heads, and pathless groves, 

Places which pale passion loves : 

Moonlight walks, where all the fowls 

Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 

A midnight bell, a passing groan, 

These are the sounds we feed upon: 

Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley; 

Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 

Beaumont. 

THE LIFE OF MAN. 

Like to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood : 
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light 
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night : 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies : 
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies ; 
The dew's dried up, the star is shot, 
The flight is past, and man forgot. 

Beaumont. 

MORNING. 

See, the day begins to break, 
And the light shoots like a streak 
Of subtile fire ; the wind blows cold, 
While the morning doth unfold ; 
Now the birds begin to rouse, 
And the squirrel from the boughs 
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit ; 
The early lark, that erst was mute 
Carols to the rising day 
Many a note and many a lay. 

Fletcher. 

EXHORTATION TO EARLY RISING. 

Shepherds, rise, and shake off sleep ! 
See, the blushing morn doth peep 
Through the windows, while the sun 
To the mountain tops is run, 
Gilding all the vales below 
With his rising flames, which grow 
Greater by his climbing still. 
Up. ye lazy grooms, and fill 



1603-1625.] BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 14i 



Bag and bottle for the field ! 
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield 
To the bitter north-east wind. 
Call the maidens up, and find 
Who lies longest, that she may 
Go "without a friend all day ; 
Then reward your dogs, and pray 
Pan to keep you from decay: 
So unfold, and then away! 



THE SHEPHERD S EVENING. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 
Fold your flocks up, for the air 
'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 
See the dew-drops how they kiss 
Every little flower that is ; 
Hanging on their velvet heads, 
Like a rope of crystal beads. 
See the heavy clouds low falling, 
And bright Hesperus down calling 
The dead night from under ground , 
At whose rising mists unsound. 
Damps, and vapors fly apace, 
Hovering o'er the wanton face 
Of these pastures, where they come 
Striking dead both bud and bloom; 
Therefore, from such danger, lock 
Every one his loved flock ; 
And let your dogs lie loose without, 
Lest the wolf come as a scout 
From the mountain, and, ere day, 
Bear a lamb or kid away; 
Or the crafty thievish fox 
Break upon your simple flocks. 
To secure yourselves from these 
Be not too secure in ease ; 
Let one eye his watches keep, 
While the other eye doth sleep ; 
So you shall good shepherds prove, 
And for ever hold the love 
Of our great God. Sweetest slumbers, 
And soft silence, fall in numbers 
On your eyelids ! So, farewell ! 
Thus I end my evening's knell. 

Flktcheb, 



K 13 



146 RALEIGE. [JAMES I. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1552—1618. 

Sir Walter Raleigh, one of the most remarkable men England has pro- 
duced, was born in the parish of Budley in Devonshire, in 1552. About the 
year 1568 he entered Oxford, where he continued but a short time, for in the 
following year he was in" France, where Hooker says " he spent good part of 
his youth in wars and martial exercises." He escaped the massacre of St. 
Bartholomew, (August, 1572,) by taking refuge with Sir Philip Sidney in the 
house of the English ambassador. In 1579 he accompanied his half brother, 
Sir Henry Gilbert, in a voyage to Newfoundland : the expedition proved un- 
fortunate, but it doubtless had an influence in leading him to engage in sub- 
sequent expeditions which have made his name famous. He soon ingratiated 
himself with the queen, who, in 1584, granted him a patent to discover "such 
remote heathen and barbarous lands, not actually possessed by any Christian 
prince, as to him might seem good." Two ships were soon after fitted out 
by Raleigh, which arrived on the coast of Carolina in July. They were com- 
manded by Philip Amidas and Arthur Barlow, who took possession of the 
country in the name of the Virgin Queen, and called it Virginia. In 1585 he 
projected a second voyage, and seven vessels were sent out, which arrived at 
Roanoke, an island in Albemarle Sound. But the colonists failed in their ob- 
ject, and in July 27, 1586, returned to England, carrying with them, for the 
first time, that nauseous weed, tobacco, instead of diamonds and gold. In 
1594 he matured the plan of his first voyage to Guiana — a voyage memorable 
in his history, as it was eventually the cause of his destruction. This expedi- 
tion he attended in person, and returned to England in the summer of 1595, 
when he published a work, entitled " Discovery of the Large, Rich, and Beau- 
tiful Empire of Guiana." 

But his fortune fell with the death of the queen. « A prince from the north, 
with the meanness of soul which has no parallel, and a narrow subtilty of 
intellect which is worse than folly, ascended the British throne, and changed 
the face and character of the court and the nation. King James frowned upon 
Raleigh, and within three months entertained a charge against him for high 
treason," of conspiring to dethrone the king, of exciting sedition, and of en- 
deavoring to establish popery by the aid of foreign powers. After a trial, 
perhaps the most disgraceful in the annals of English jurisprudence, he was 
condemned to lose his head. He was reprieved, however, by the king, but 
his estates were taken from him, and he was sent to the Tower for twelve 
years — a period the best employed of any in his life, as he there composed 
the great work on which his literary fame chiefly rests — " The History of the 
World." In the year 1615 he was liberated by the king, who wanted him to- 
plan and conduct an expedition to Guiana, and in 1617 he sailed with twelve 
vessels. But the expedition failed, and Sir Walter's death was determined 
on. Finding no present grounds against him, his enemies proceeded on the 
old sentence, and he was beheaded on the 29th of October, 1618, dying with 
the same dauntless resolution he had displayed through his life. " Who is 
there," exclaims Sir Egerton Brydges, 1 " that will not read with a heart first 
expanding with admiration, and afterwards wrung with resentment and soi- 

l Read — a memoir of Raleigh in that most fascinating of books, Sir Egerton Brydges's " Imaginative 
Biography;" also, the biography preceding the edition of his poems, by the same author, who lias 
doiv 3 so much for English literature. 



1603-1625.] raleigh. 147 

row, the story of Raleigh, though a thousand times told 1 If there were no 
other blots on James's reign, Raleigh's death alone would render it intolerable 
to every generous and reflecting mind." 

Sir Walter Raleigh is no less distinguished as a literary character than as 
an experienced navigator and a valorous knight For extent of knowledge 
and variety of talent, he was undoubtedly the first man of his age. The work 
on which his fame chiefly rests is his " History of the World," which begins 
with the Creation, and ends with the downfall of the Macedonian Empire, 
168 B. C. 1 Of this work Hume remarks, "it is the best model of that ancient 
style, which some writers would affect to revive at present ;" and Professor 
Tytler, the Scotch historian, commends it as "rigorous, purely English, and 
possessing an antique richness of ornament, similar to what pleases us when 
we see some ancient priory or stately manor-house, and compare it with our 
more modern mansions. It is laborious without being heavy, learned with- 
out being dry. Its narrative is clear and spirited, and the matter collected 
from the most authentic sources." The following is the concluding portion of 
this great work, a passage which, in the opinion of Warburton, has never 
been equalled, except by Milton : — 

THE FALL OF MIGHTY EMPIRES THE FOLLY OF AMBITION 

THE POWER OF DEATH. 

By this which we have already set down is seen the beginning 
and end of the first three monarchies of the world, whereof the 
founders and erectors thought that they could never have ended. 
That of Rome, which made the fourth, was also at this time almost 
at the highest. We have left it flourishing in the middle of the 
field, having rooted up or cut down all that kept it from the eyes 
and admiration of the world ; hut after some continuance it shall 
begin to lose the beauty it had ; the storms of ambition shall beat 
her great boughs and branches one against another, her leaves 
shall fall off, her limbs wither, and a rabble of barbarous nations 
enter the field and cut her down. 

Now these great kings and conquering nations have been the 
subject of those ancient histories which have been preserved, and 
yet remain among us ; and withal of so many tragical poets, as, 
in the persons of powerful princes and other mighty men, have 
complained against infidelity, time, destiny, and most of all against 
the variable success of worldly things, and instability of fortune. 
To these undertakings the greatest lords of the world have been 
stirred up, rather by the desire of fame, which plougheth up the 
air, and soweth in the wind, than by the affection of bearing rule, 
which draweth after it so much vexation and so many cares. And 
certainly, as fame hath often been dangerous to the living, so it is 
to the dead of no use at all, because separate from knowledge. 
Which were it otherwise, and the extreme ill bargain of buying 
this lasting discourse understood by them which are dissolved, 

1 Battle of Pydna. 



148 RALEIGH. [JAMES I. 

they themselves would then rather have wished to have stolen 
Dut of the world without noise, than to be put in mind that they 
have purchased the report of their actions in the world by rapine, 
oppression, and cruelty ; by giving in sport the innocent and 
laboring soul to the idle and insolent, and by having emptied 
the cities of the world of their ancient inhabitants, and filled them 
again with so many and so variable sorts of sorrows. 

If we seek a reason of the succession and continuance of this 
boundless ambition in mortal men, we may add to that which hath 
been already said, that the kings and princes of the world have 
always laid before them the actions, but not the ends of those 
great ones which preceded them. They are always transported 
with the glory of the one, but they never mind the misery of the 
other, till they find the experience in themselves. They neglect 
the advice of God, while they enjoy life or hope it ; but they fol- 
low the counsel of death upon his first approach. It is he that 
puts into man all the wisdom of the world, without speaking a 
word, which God, with all the words of his law, promises, or 
threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and destroyeth 
man, is believed ; God, which hath made him and loves him, is 
always deferred. It was death which opened the conscience of 
Charles V., made him enjoin his son Philip to restore Navarre ; 
and King Francis I. of France, to command that justice should 
be done upon the murderers of the Protestants in Merindol and 
Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore death 
alone that can suddenly make man to know himself. He tells the 
proud and insolent that they are but abjects, and humbles them at 
the instant, makes them cry, complain, and repent, yea, even to 
hate their forepast happiness. He takes the account of the rich 
and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar, which hath interest in 
nothing but the gravel that fills his mouth. He holds a glass be- 
fore the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them see therein 
their deformity and rottenness, and they acknowledge it. 

O eloquent, just, and mighty Death ! whom none corf d advise, 
thou hast persuaded ; what none hath dared, thou hast done ; and 
whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the 
world, and despised ; thou bast drawn together all the far-stretched 
greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered 
it over with these two narrow words — Hie jacet. 

Besides his great work, Sir Walter wrote a large number of tracts and trea- 
tises upon various subjects: such as "Maxims of State, a Compendium of 
Government :" " The Cabinet Council, containing the Chief Arts of Empire, 
&c. :" on the "Invention of Ships, Anchors, Compass, &c. ;" "Journal of a 
Second Voyage to Guiana;" a " Treatise on Mines and Minerals;" and be- 
tween thirty and forty others on divers subjects. Such were the literary labors 
of tins extraordinary man ; and most truthfully has it been remarked, that as 



1603-1625.] kaleigh. 149 

« an lii=torian, a navigator, a soldier, and a politician, he ranks with the first 
characters of his age and country; and his life furnishes the most unequivocal 
proo* that, amid the disti actions of an active and adventurous life, leisure may 
always be found for the cultivation of letters." 

But Sir Walter Raleigh did not confine himself to prose; he courted the 
Muses, and he is a votary of whom the Muses cannot but be proud. The 
poetry he has left is but little : it is sufficient, however, to discover that, had he 
made it a serious pursuit, he would have equally excelled in that, as he has 
in other departments of learning. Spenser, who had a high opinion of his 
poetical abilities, styles him "the Summer's Nightingale." 1 The following 
pieces richly merit any encomium : — 

A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS. 

Quivering fears, heart-tearing Cares, 
Anxious Sighs, untimely Tears, 
Fly, fly to courts ; 
Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still, 
And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; 
Where mirth's but mummery ; 
And sorrows only real be! 

Fly from our country pastimes ! fly, 
Sad troop of human misery ; 
Come serene looks, 
Clear as the crystal brooks, 
Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see 
The rich attendance of our poverty. 
Peace and a secure mind, 
Which all men seek, we only find. 

Abused mortals ! did you know 
Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow ; 
You'd scorn proud towers, 
And seek them in these bowers, 
Where winds sometimes our ■woods perhaps may shake, 
But blustering Care could never tempest make, 
• Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
Saving of fountains that glide by us. 

Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance, 
But of our kids, that frisk and prance : 
Nor wars are seen, 
Unless upon the green 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 
Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother ; 
And wounds are never found, 
Save what the plough-share gives the ground 

1 "Do I pronounce Raleigh a poet? Not, perhaps, in the judgment of a severe criticism. In his 
tetter days he was too much occupied in action to have cultivated all the powers of a poet, which 
require solitude and perpetual meditation. He possessed not perhaps the copious, vivid, and crea- 
tive powers of Spenser, but still we can perceive in him some traits of attraction and excellence, 
which perhaps even Spenser wanted. If less diversified than that gifted bard, he would, I think, 
have been more forcible and sublime. His images would have be€ n gigantic, and his reflections 
more daring."— Sir Egerton Brydgea. 

13* 



150 RALEIGH. [JAMES L 

Here are no false entrapping baits, 
To hasten too, too hasty fates ; 
Unless it be 
The fond credulity 
Of silly fish, which worldling-like, still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook : 
Nor envy, unless among 
The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 

Go ! let the diving negro seek 
For gems hid in some forlorn creek; 
We all pearls scorn, 
Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; 
And gold ne"er here appears, 
Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves ! may ye be 
For ever mirth's best nursery ! 
May pure contents 
For ever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 
And peace still slumber by these purling fountains ! 
Which we may every year 
Find when we come a fishing here ! 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD. 1 

If all the world and Love were young, 
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue, 
These pleasures might my passion move 
To five with thee, and be thy love. 

But fading flowers in every field, 
To winter floods their treasures yield ; 
A honey'd tongue — a heart of gall, 
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall. 

Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten, 
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, 
Can me with no enticements move, 
To five with thee, and be thy love. 

But could Youth last, could Love still breed ; 
Had joys no date, had Age no need ; 
Then those delights my mind might move 
To five with thee, and be thy love. 

1 See the invitation of the Shepherd by Marlow, p. 87. 



1C03-1625.] RALEIGH. 161 

A VISION UPON THE FAERIE QUEENE. 1 

Methought I saw the grave, where Laura 2 lay, 

Within that temple, where the vestal flame 
Was wont to b^^rn ; and, passing by that way, 

To see that buried dust of living fame, 
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept : 

All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queene ; 
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, 

And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen ; 
For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead 

Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse : 
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 

And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce . 
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, 
And cursed the access of that celestial thief! 

THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 3 

Go, Soul, the Body's guest, 

Upon a thankless errand ; 
Fear not to touch the best ; 

The truth shall be thy warrant 
Go, since I needs must die, 
And give them all the lie. 

Go, tell the Court it glows, 

And shines like painted wood; 
Go, tell the Church it shows 

What's good, but does no good. 
If Court and Church reply, 
Give Court and Church the lie. 

Tell Potentates, they live 

Acting, but oh ! their actions 
Not loved, unless they give ; 

Nor strong, but by their factions. 
If Potentates reply, 
Give Potentates the lie. 

1 " A higher strain of compliment cannot well be conceived than this, which raises your idea even 
of that which it disparages in comparison, and makes you feel that nothing could have torn the 
writer from his idolatrous enthusiasm for Petrarch and his Laura's tomb, but Spenser's magic verse 
and diviner Faerie Queene— the one lifted above mortality, the other brought from the skies." — Hazlitt 

" I have been always singularly struck and delighted with the tone, imagery, and expression of 
this extraordinary sonnet. The author must at this time have been deeply read in works of poetical 
fancy, and highly imbued with their spirit. Milton had deeply studied this sonnet; for in his com- 
positions of the same class, he has evidently, more than once, the very rhythm and construction, a* 
well as cast of thought, of this noble, though brief composition." — Sir Egerton Brydges. 

2 The lady to whom Petrarch addressed so much of his beautiful poetry. 

3 This poem appeared anonymously in "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," in 1608, and has been 
ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. I have therefore given it a place here with his poems, although there 
Is no certainty about it. Sir Egerton Brydges, always good authority in every question of English 
Literature, places it at the end of his edition of Raleigh's poems, and says :— " I know no author so 
capable of writing it as Raleigh; but, whoever was the author, it is i poem of uncommon beauty 
and merit, and glowing with all that moral pathos, which is one of the first charms in the composi- 
tions of genius." It is here printed as ir. Sir E. Brydges's edition. 



1)2 RALEIGH. [JAMES T. 



Tell men of high condition, 
That rule affairs of state, 

Their purpose is ambition ; 
Their practice only hate. 

And if they do reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell those that brave it most, 
They beg for more by spending, 

Who, in their greatest cost, 

Seek nothing but commending. 

And if they make reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion : 

Tell Love it is but lust ; 
Tell Time it is but motion ; 

Tell Flesh it is but dust : 
And wish them not reply, 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell Age it daily wasteth ; 

Tell Honor how it alters ; 
Tell Beauty that it blasteth ; 

Tell Favor that she falters : 
And as they do reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
In fickle points of niceness ; 

Tell Wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness : 

And if they do reply, 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell Physic of her boldness ; 

Tell Skill it is pretension ; 
Tell Charity of coldness ; 

Tell Law it is contention: 
And if they yield reply, 
Then give them still the lie. 

Tell Fortune of her blindness ; 

Tell Nature of decay; 
Tell Friendship of unkindness ; 

Tell Justice of delay : 
And if they do reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Arts they have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming ; 
Tell Schools they lack profoundness. 

And stand too much on seeming. 
If Arts and Schools reply, 
Give Arts and Schools the lie. 

Tell Faith it's fled the city; 

Tell how the Country erreth; 
Tell Manhood, shakes off pity; 

Tell Virtue, least preferreth. 



1603-1625.] raleigh. 153 

And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So, when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing j 
Although to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the Soul can kill. 

The following most affectionate and touching letter, written by Raleigh to 
his wife, after his condemnation, cannot be omitted : — 

You shall receive, my dear wife, my last words in these my 
last lines ; my love I send you, that you may keep when I am 
dead, and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no 
more. I would not with my will present you sorrows, dear Bess ; 
let them go to the grave with me, and be buried in the dust. And 
seeing that it is not the will of God that I shall see you any more, 
bear my destruction patiently, and with an heart like yourself. 

First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, 
or my words express, for your many travails and cares for me ; 
which though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my 
debt to you is not the less ; but pay it I never shall in this world. 

Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bare me living, that 
you do not hide yourself many days, hut by your travails seek to 
help the miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child. Youi 
mourning cannot avail me that am but dust. 

Thirdly, you shall understand, that my lands were conveyed 
bona fide to my child ; the writings were drawn at midsummer 
was twelve months, as divers can witness ; and I trust my blood 
will quench their malice who desired my slaughter, that they will 
not seek also to kill you and yours with extreme poverty. To 
what friend to direct you I know not, for all mine have left me in 
the true time of trial. Most sorry am I, that, being thus surprised 
by death, I can leave you no better estate ; God hath prevented 
all my determinations, — that great God which worketh all in all ; 
and if you can live free from want, care for no more, for the rest 
is but a vanity : love God, and begin betimes — in him you shall 
find true, everlasting, and endless comfort ; when you have tra- 
vailed and wearied yourself with all sorts of worldly cogitations, 
you shall sit down by sorrow in the end. Teach your son also to 
serve and fear God whilst he is young, that the fear of God may 
grow up in him ; then will God be an husband to you, and a 
father to him — an husband and a father that can never be taken 
from you. 

Baylie oweth me a thousand pounds, and Aryan six hundred ; 
in Jernesey also I have much owing me. Dear wife, I beseech 
you, for my soul's sake, pay all poor men. When I am dead, no 



154 CARET. • [JAMES I. 

doubt you shall be much sought unto, for the world thinks I was 
very rich : have a care to the fair pretences of men, for no greater 
misery can befall you in this life, than to become a prey unto the 
world, and after to be despised. I speak (God knows) not to dis- 
suade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect 
of God and the world. As for me, I am no more yours, nor you 
mine ; death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from 
the world, and you from me. Remember your poor child for his 
father's sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for 
my life, but God knows it was for you and yours that I desired 
it : for know it, my dear wife, your child is the child of a true 
man, who in his own respect despiseth death and his misshapen 
and ugly forms. I cannot write much ; God knows how hardly 
I steal this time when all sleep ; and it is also time for me to sepa- 
rate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which 
living was denied you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or Exe- 
ter church by my father and mother. I can say no more ; time 
and death call me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infi- 
nite, and inscrutable God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the 
true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon 
me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us 
to meet in his glorious kingdom. My dear wife, farewell; bless 
my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in 
his arms. 

Yours that was, but now not mine own, 

Walter Raleigh. 



LADY ELIZABETH CAREY. 



Of the history of this lady, nothing satisfactory can be obtained. She wrote 
n tragedy, entitled « Mariam, the fair Queen of Jewry," written by that 
[earned, virtuous, and truly noble lady, "E. C. 1613." It is written in al- 
ternate verse, and with a chorus after the manner of the Greek tragedians. 
She died probably some time in the reign of James the First. The following 
is the chorus in Act IV. of Mariam : — 

ON FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES. 

The fairest action of our human life 
Is scorning to revenge an injury ; 
For who forgives without a further strife, 
His adversary's heart to him doth tie. 
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, 
To win the heart, than overthrow the head. 

If we a worthy enemy do find, 

To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; 

1 Generally spelled Carew, but incorrectly. 



1603-1625.] rANiBL. 155 

But if of baser metal be his mind, 

In base revenge there is no honoi won. 
Who would a worthy courage overthrow, 
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe? 

We say our hearts are great and cannot yield ; 

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor ; 
Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld 
The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, 
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. 

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn, 

To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; 
To scorn to be for benefits forborne, 
To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong. 
To scorn to bear an injury in mind, 
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. 

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, 

Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; 
Do we his body from our fury save, 

And let our hate prevail against our mind ? 
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, 
Than make his foe more worthy far than he 1 

Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, 

She would to Herod then have paid her love ; 
And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. 
To fix her thoughts all injury above 
Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, 
Long famous life to her had been allow'd. 



SAMUEL DANIEL. 1562—1619. 



We know but little of the personal history of Samuel Daniel. He was th« 
son of a music master, and was born near Taunton, in Somersetshire, in 
1562. In 1579 he entered Oxford, and left it at the end of three years with- 
out taking his degree. Towards the close of his life he retired to a farm in 
his native county, and died in 1619. 

His most elaborate work is " The History of the Civil Wars between the 
Houses of York and Lancaster," which is rather an uninteresting work, foi 
the reason that you see in it more of the correctness of the annalist than the 
fancy of the poet. Sound morality, prudential wisdom, and occasional touches 
of the pathetic, delivered in a style of great perspicuity, will be recognised 
throughout his work; but neither warmth, passion, nor sublimity, nr the 
most distant trace of enthusiasm, can be found to animate the mass. But 
some of his minor poems, especially his moral epistles, have srreat merit, 
abounding in original thought, expressed in clear, simple, and vigorous lan- 
guage. A very discriminating and candid critic says, " We find both in his 
poetry and prose such a legitimate and rational flow of language, as ap- 
proaches nearer the style of the eighteenth than the sixteenth century, and 



156 DANIEL. [JAMES I. 

of which we may safely assert, that it will never become obsolete. He cer- 
tainl/ was the Atticus of his day." * 

EQUANIMITY. 

He that of such a height hath built his mind, 
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same : 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey? 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon those lower regions of turmoil ? 
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
On flesh and blood : where honor, power, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' wars 
But only as on stately robberies ; 
Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars 
The fairest and the best-faced enterprise. 
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : 
Justice, he sees, (as if seduced,) still 
Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. 

He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires, 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, that let deceit work what it can, 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires, 
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet 
All disappoint, and mock this smoke of wit. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed ; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived ; whilst man doth ransack man, 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
And th' inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes : he looks thereon 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learn'd this book of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings : 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Epistle to the Countess of Cumberlana. 



1 Read— notices of Daniel in Headley's "Beauties of Ancient English Poetry ;" in the Retrospective 
Review viii. 227 and in Drake s Shukspeare, i. 611. 



1003-1625.] daniel. 157 

RICHARD THE SECOND, 

The Morning before his Murder in Pamfret Castle. 

Whether the soul receives intelligence, 
By her near genius, of the body's end, 
And so imparts a sadness to the sense, 
Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend ; 
Or whether nature else hath conference 
With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, 
By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, 
And gives the heavy careful heart to fear : 

However, so it is, the now sad king, 
Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, 
Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering 
Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground ; 
Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering ; 
Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound ; 
His senses droop, Lis steady eyes unquick, 
And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. 

The morning of that day which was his last, 

After a weary rest, rising to pain, 

Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 

Upon those bordering hills and open plain, 

Where others' liberty makes him complain 

The more his own, and grieves his soul the more, 

Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor. 

O happy man, saith he, that lo I see, 

Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields, 

If he but knew his good. How blessed he 

That feels not what affliction greatness yields ! 

Other than what he is he would not be, 

Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. 

Thine, thine is that true life : that is to live 

To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 

Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, 
And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none : 
And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, 
Who fall, who rise, wno triumph, who do moan. 
Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire 
Of my restraint, why here I live alone, 
And pitiest this my miserable fall ; 
For pity must have part — envy not all. 

Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, 

And have no venture in the wreck you see ; 

No interest, no occasion to deplore 

Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. 

How much doth your sweet rest make us the more 

To see our misery and what we be : 

Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, 

Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil. 

Third Book of the Civil IVan. 
14 



158 FLETCHER. [JAMES I« 



GILES FLETCHER. 1588—1623 

This truly pleasing Christian poet, the brother of Phineas Fletcher, who, 
in the words of old Antony Wood, " was equally beloved of the Muses and 
Graces," was born 1588. But very little is known of his life. He has, how- 
ever, immortalized his name by that beautiful poem entitled, "Christ's Victory 
and Triumph in Heaven and Earth over and after Death :" a poem which 
displays great sweetness, united to harmony of numbers. Headley styles il 
"rich and picturesque," and CampbelU says, that "inferior as he is to Spen 
ser and Milton, he might be figured, in his happiest moments, as a link of 
connection in our poetry between those congenial spirits, for he reminds ui 
of both, and evidently gave hints to the latter, in a poem on the same subject 
with Paradise Regained." 

REDEMPTION. 

When I remember Christ our burden bears, 

I look for glory, but find misery ; 
I look for joy, but find a sea of tears ; 

I look that we should live, and find Him die ; 
I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry : 
Thus what I look, I cannot find so well ; 
Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell ; 
These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell 

Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin; 

Suffers for us — and our joy springs in this ; 
Surfers to death — here is his manhood seen ; 
Suffers to rise — and here his Godhead is ; 
For man, that could not by himself have ris', 
Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise ; 
And God, that could not die, in manhood dies, 
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice. 

A tree was first the instrument of strife, 

Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute ; 
A tree is now the instrument of life, 

Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit; 
Ah ! cursed tree, and yet O blessed fruit ! 
That death to Him, this life to us doth give : 
Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, 
And the Physician dies to make his patient live. 

Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight, 

Yet in his honey-flowers our poison blew ; 
Sad Gethseman, the bower of baleful night, 
Where Christ a health of poison for us drew, 
Yet all our honey in that poison grew : 
So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, 
And Christ from bitter venom could again 
Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain. 

A man was first the author of our fall, 
A Man is now the author of our rise ; 

1 Specimens, vol. a. p. "6<it>. 



L603--1625.] bacon. 159 

A garden was the place we perish'd all, 

A garden is the place He pays our price : 

And the old serpent, with a new device, 
Hath found a way himself for to beguile : 
So he, that all men tangled in his wile, 
Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile. 

The dewy night had with her frosty shade 

Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground 
Sparkled in ice ; only the Lord that made 
All for Himself, Himself dissolved found, 
Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound; 
Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, 
Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, 
And thrice denied of those, not to deny had swore. 



FRANCIS BACON. 1561—1626. 

Him for the studious shade 
Kind nature form'd, deep, comprehensive, cl<*ar, 
Exact, and elegant; in one rich soul, 
Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join'd, 
The great deliverer he I who, from the gloom 
Of cloister'd monks and jargon-teaching schools, 
Led forth the true philosophy, there long 
Held in the magic chain of words and forms, 
And definitions void. 

Thomson. 

Francis Bacon-, Viscount of St. Albans, 1 and lord high chancellor of Eng 
land, was born in London, January 22, 1561. He was the son of Sir Nicholas 
Bacon, lord keeper of the great seal. He entered Cambridge at the early age 
of thirteen, and after spending four years there, where he was distinguish et' 
for his zealous application to study, and for the extraordinary maturity of his 
understanding, he went abroad and travelled in France. But his father dying 
suddenly in 1579, and leaving but very little property, he hastily returned to 
England, and prosecuted the study of the law. He did not, however, neglect 
philosophy, for not far from this period he planned his great work, " The 
Instauration of the Sciences." In 1590 he obtained the post of counsel extra- 
ordinary to the queen, and three years after he had a seat in parliament from 
Middlesex. On the accession of James I. new honors awaited him. He was 
knighted in 1603. In 1607 he married Alice, daughter of Benedict Barnham, 
Esq., alderman of London, by whom he had a considerable fortune, but no 
children. In subsequent years he obtained successively the offices of king's 
counsel, solicitor general, and attorney general. In 1617 the king presented 
the great seal to him; in 1618 he obtained the title of lord high chancellor of 
England, and about six months after the title of Baron of Verulam, which title 
gave place in the following year to that of Viscount of St. Albans. But a 
« killing frost" was soon to nip these buds of honor : his fall and disgrace 

l This is a town in Hertfordshire, famous for the two battles fought in 1455 and WW between the 
two rival houses of York, and Lancaster. It was anciently called Verulam, whence Bacon's subse- 
quent title of honor, Baron Verulam. 



160 BACON. [CHARLES I. 

were at hand. In 1621 a parliamentary inquiry was instituted into his con- 
duct as judge, which ended in his condemnation and disgrace, for having 
received numerous presents or bribes from parties whose cases were brought 
before him for decision. He fully confessed to the twenty-three articles of 
fraud, deceit, mal-practice, and corruption which were laid to his charge; 
and when waited on by a committee of the House of Lords, appointed to 
inquire whether the confession was subscribed by himself, he answered, " It 
is my hand, my act, my heart : I beseech your lordships to be merciful to a 
broken reed." He was fined £40,000 ; sent prisoner to the Tower ; and de- 
clared incapable of any office or employment in the state. After a short con- 
finement he was released, and in 1625 obtained a full pardon. He died on 
the 9th of April, 1626. 

The following are the most important works of this wonderful man: 
1. His " Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral." They were published in 1596, 
so that Shakspeare, who lived twenty years after, and during which time 
wrote his best plays, had the benefit of their perusal : and what delight and 
what profit must such a genius as his have derived from them ; for no book 
contains a greater fund of useful knowledge, or displays a more intimate ac- 
quaintance with human life and manners. "It maybe read," says the great 
Scotch philosopher, Dugald Stewart, " from beginning to end in a few hours, 
and yet, after the twentieth perusal, one seldom fails to remark in it some- 
tiring overlooked before." 

2. " The Proficience and Advancement of Learning." This forms the 
first part of his great work afterwards published under the title of Insiawatkt 
Scientiarum, " The Reform in the Study of the Sciences." It is divided into 
two books : the first chiefly considers the objections to learning, and points out 
the many impediments to its progress : the second, the distribution of know- 
ledge, which he divides into three parts. "The parts of human learning," 
says he, " have reference to the three parts of man's understanding, which is 
the seat of learning : History to his Memory, Poesy to his Imagination, and 
Philosophy to his Reason." He gives also a full genealogical table of know- 
ledge, agreeably to this distribution. This is a work of vast learning. 

3. His celebrated treatise " Of the Wisdom and Learning of the Ancients." 
The object of this is to show that all the allegories and fables of antiquity 
have some concealed meaning, which had never been sufficiently explained. 
In the interpretation of these ancient mysteries, he has displayed his re- 
markable sagacity and penetration, besides interspersing throughout various 
important observations on collateral subjects. 

4. The Novum Organum, or " New Instrument," or " Method of Studying 
the Sciences." This is the great work which has immortalized his name, and 
placed him at the head of the philosophic world. The great Greek philoso- 
pher Aristotle called his philosophical work the "Organum." The "Method" 
which he adopted in scientific inquiries was rather to frame systems and lay 
down principles, and then to seek or make things conform thereto. But Lord 
Bacon, in his " New Method," insists upon the duty of carefully ascertaining 
facts in the first place, and then reasoning upon them towards conclusions. 
« Man," he says, " who is the servant and interpreter of nature, can act and 
understand no further than he has, either in operation or in contemplation, ob- 
served of the method and order of nature." And again, " Men have sought 
to make a world from their own conceptions, and to draw from their own 
minds all the materials which they employed : but if, instead of doing so, 

hey had consulted experience and observation, they would have bad facts 



1625-1649.] bacon. 161 

and not opinions to reason about, and might ultimately have arrived at the 
knowledge of the laws which govern the material world." Thus Bacon 
established the method of Induction 1 as the only true key to the temple of 
knowledge, and has therefore been called the Father of the Inductive Phi- 
losophy. " The power and compass," says Professor Playfair, " of a mind 
which could form such a plan beforehand, and trace not merely the outline, 
but many of the most minute ramifications of sciences which did not yet 
exist, must be an object of admiration to all succeeding ages." 2 

Such is a brief and meagre view of the wonderful intellectual labors of 
this extraordinary man. He was not insensible of their value, for his last 
will contains this remarkable passage : " My name and memory I leave to 
loreign nations and to my own country after some time is passed over." 3 

DIVERSE OBJECTS OF MEN TO GAIN KNOWLEDGE. 

Men have entered into a desire of learning and knowledge 
sometimes upon a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite ; 
sometimes to entertain their minds with variety and delight ; some- 
times for ornament and reputation ; and sometimes to enable them 
to victory of wit and contradiction ; and most times for lucre and 
profession ; and seldom sincerely to give a true account of their 
gift of reason to the benefit and use of man. As if there were 
sought in knowledge a couch whereupon to rest a searching and 
restless spirit ; or a terrace for a wandering and variable mind to 
walk up and down with a fair prospect ; or a tower of state for a 
proud mind to raise itself upon ; or a fort or commanding ground 
for- strife and contention ; or a shop for profit or sale ; and not a 
rich store-house for the glory of the Creator, and the relief of 
man's estate. 

PRESERVATION OF KNOWLEDGE. 

As water, whether it be the dew of heaven or the springs of 
the earth, doth scatter and lose itself in the ground, except it be 
collected into some receptacle, where it may, by union, comfort 
and sustain itself; and, for that cause, the industry of man hath 
framed and made spring-heads, conduits, cisterns, and pools ; 
which men have accustomed likewise to beautify and adorn with 
accomplishments of magnificence and state, as well as of use and 

1 This is called the Inductive system, from the Latin inductio, "a leading up," from particular facts 
to general conclusions. 

2 The best edition of Bacon is that by Basil Montagu, 17 vols. 8vo, London. It has been reprinted 
here in three volumes. Read, particularly, a very able article in the " Edinburgh Review," by M<* 
caulay, July, 1837. Read, also, two in the "Retrospective," iii. 141, and iv. 280; also, an article in 
the third vol. of D'Israeli's "Amenities of Literature ;" another, in Hazlitt's "Age of Elizabeth ;" 
and the work recently published in Dublin, entitled "Selections from Bacon," by Thos. W. Moffett. 

3 " Who is there, that, upon hearing the name of Lord Bacon, does not instantly recognise every 
thing of genius the most profound, every thing of literature the most extensive, every thing of dis- 
covery the most penetrating, every thing of observation on human life the most distinguishing and 
refined."— Burke. 

L 14* 



162 BACON. [CHARLES I. 

necessity : so knowledge, whether it descend from divine inspira- 
tion or spring from human sense, would soon perish and vanish to 
oblivion, if it were not preserved in books, traditions, conferences, 
and places appointed, as universities, colleges, and schools for the 
receipt and comforting the same. 

PLEASURE OF KNOWLEDGE. 

The pleasure and delight of knowledge and learning far sur- 
passeth all other in nature ; for shall the pleasures of the affections 
so exceed the pleasures of the senses, as much as the obtaining 
of desire or victory exceedeth a song or a dinner ; and must not, 
of consequence, the pleasures of the intellect or understanding 
exceed the pleasures of the affections ? We see in all other plea- 
sures there is a satiety, and after they be used, their verdure de- 
parteth ; which showeth well they be but deceits of pleasure, and 
not pleasure, and that it was the novelty which pleased and not the 
quality ; and therefore we see that voluptuous men turn friars f 
and ambitious princes turn melancholy ; but of knowledge there 
is no satiety, 1 but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually inter- 
changeable ; and therefore appeareth to be good, in itself simply, 
without fallacy or accident. 

THE USES OF KNOWLEDGE. 

Learning taketh away the wildness, and barbarism, and fierce- 
ness of men's minds : though a little superficial learning doth 
rather work a contrary effect. It taketh away all levity, temerity, 
and insolency, by copious suggestion of all doubts and difficulties, 
and acquainting the mind to balance reasons on both sides, and to 
turn back the first offers and conceits of the kind, and to accept 
of nothing but examined and tried. It taketh away vain admira- 
tion of any thing, which is the root of all weakness : for all things 
are admired, either because they are new, or because they are 
great. For novelty, no man wadeth in learning or contemplation 
thoroughly, but will find that printed in his heart, " / know no- 
thing" Neither can any man marvel at the play of puppets, 
that goeth behind the curtain, and adviseth well of the motion. 
And for magnitude, as Alexander the Great, after that he was 
used to great armies, and the great conquests of the spacious pro- 
vinces in Asia, when he received letters out of Greece, of some 
fights and services there, which were commonly for a passage, or 
a fort, or some walled town at the most, he said, " It seemed to 
him, that he was advertised of the battle of the frogs and the mice, 
♦ hat the old tales went of." So certainly, if a man meditate upon 



1 A perpetual feast of iiectar'd 
"Where no crude surfeit reigns.— Comvs. 



1625-1649.] BACOtf. 163 

the universal frame of nature, the earth with men upon it, the 
divineness of souls excepted, will not seem much other thLn 
an ant-hill, where some ants carry corn, and some carry their 
young, and some go empty, and ail to and fro a little heap of dust. 
It taketh away or mitigateth fear of death, or adverse fortune ; 
which is one of the greatest impediments of virtue, and imperfec- 
tions of manners. For if a man's mind be deeply seasoned with 
the consideration of the mortality and corruptible nature of things, 
he will easily concur with Epictetus, who went forth one day, and 
saw a woman weeping for her pitcher of earth that was broken ; 
and went forth the next day, and saw a woman weeping for her 
son that was dead ; and thereupon said, " Yesterday I saw a fra- 
gile thing broken, to-day I have seen a mortal thing die." And 
therefore Virgil did excellently and profoundly couple the know- 
ledge of causes, and the conquest of all fears together. 

It were too long to go over the particular remedies which 
learning doth minister to all the diseases of the mind, sometimes 
purging the ill humors, sometimes opening the obstructions, some- 
times helping the digestion, sometimes increasing appetite, some- 
times healing the wounds and exulcerations thereof, and the like ; 
and therefore I will conclude with the chief reason of all, which 
is, that it disposeth the constitution of the mind not to be fixed or 
settled in the defects thereof, but still to be capable and suscepti- 
ble of reformation. For the unlearned man knows not what it is 
to descend into himself, or to call himself to account ; nor the plea- 
sure of that most pleasant life, which consists in our daily feeling 
ourselves to become better. The good parts he hath, he will 
learn to show to the full, and use them dexterously, but not much 
to increase them : the faults he hath, he will learn how to hide 
and color them, but not much to amend them : like an ill mower, 
that mows on still and never whets his scythe. Whereas, with 
the learned man it fares otherwise, that he doth ever intermix the 
correction and amendment of his mind with the use and employ- 
ment thereof. 

STUDIES. 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their 
chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, 
is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition 
of business ; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of 
particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots 
and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. 
To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too 
much for ornament, is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by 
their ruJes, is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and 
are perfected by experience— for natural abilities are like natural 



164 BACON. [CHARLES I. 

plants, that need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do 
give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in 
by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire 
them, and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; 
but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by ob- 
servation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and 
take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and 
consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, 
and some few to be chewed and digested : that is, some books are 
to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and 
some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. 
Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of 
them by others ; but that would be only in the less important ar- 
guments, and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are, 
like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a 
full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man ; and, 
therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; 
if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he read 
little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he 
doth not. 

THE END OF KNOWLEDGE. 

It is an assured truth, and a conclusion of experience, that a 
little or superficial knowledge of philosophy may incline the mind 
of man to atheism ; but a further proceeding therein doth bring 
the mind back again to religion : for in the entrance of philosophy, 
when the second causes, which are next unto the senses, do offer 
themselves to the mind of man, if it dwell and stay there, it may 
induce some oblivion of the highest cause ; but when a man 
passeth on farther, and seeth the dependence of causes, and the 
works of Providence, then, according to the allegory of the poets, 
he will easily believe that the highest link of nature's chain must 
needs be tied to the foot of Jupiter's chair. To conclude, there- 
fore, let no man, upon a weak conceit of sobriety, or an ill-applied 
moderation, think or maintain, that a man can search too far, or be 
too well studied in the Book of GooVs word, or in the Book of 
God's works; divinity or philosophy ; but rather let men en- 
deavor an endless progress, or proficiency in both : only let men 
beware that they apply both to charity, and not to swelling ; to 
use, and not to ostentation ; and again, that they do not unwisely 
mingle, or confound these learnings together. 

THE IMMORTALITY OF LITERARY FAME. 

Let us conclude with the dignity and excellency of knowledge 
and learning in that whereunto man's nature doth most aspire, 
vvnich is immortality or continuance : for to this tendeth genera 



1625-1646.] donne. 165 

tion, and raising 1 of houses and families ; to this tendeth buildings, 
foundations, and monuments ; to this tendeth the desire of memory, 
fame, and celebration, and in effect the strength of all other hu- 
mane desires : we see then how far the monuments of wit and 
learning are more durable than the monuments of power or of the 
hands. For, have not the verses of Homer continued twenty- 
five hundred years and more, without the loss of a syllable or let- 
ter ; during which time infinite palaces, temples, castles, cities, 
have been decayed and demolished ? It is not possible to have the 
true pictures or statues of Cyrus, Alexander, Caesar, no, nor of the 
kings or great personages of much later years. For the originals 
cannot last : and the copies cannot but lose of the life and truth. 
But the images of men's wits and knowledge remain in books, ex- 
empted from the wrong of time, and capable of perpetual renova- 
tion. Neither are they fitly to be called images, because they 
generate still, and cast their seeds in the minds of others, provoking 
and causing infinite actions and opinions in succeeding ages. So 
that, if the invention of the ship was thought so noble, which 
carrieth riches and commodities from place to place, and conso- 
ciateth the most remote regions in participation of their fruits, how 
much more are letters to be magnified, which, as ships, pass 
through the vast seas of time, and make ages so distant to partici- 
pate of the wisdom, illuminations, and inventions the one of the 
other ? 



JOHN DONNE. 1573—1631. 

Johis" DojSTXe, D. D., though during his life most popular as a poet, is now 
chiefly valued for his prose writings. He "was born in London, in 1573, of 
Roman Catholic parents, but after completing his studies at Oxford, he em- 
braced Protestantism, and became secretary to lord chancellor Ellesmere. 
Falling in love with the chancellor's niece, he married her privately, for which 
he was dismissed from his office, and even imprisoned. He was soon re- 
leased from his confinement, and having " taken orders," the king (James I. ) 
made him one of his chaplains, at whose request, also, he was presented with 
the degree of D. D. by the University of Cambridge. Subsequently, he be- 
came preacher of Lincoln's Inn, and received several other church honors, 
and died March, 1631. 

Donne's poems consist of elegies, satires, letters, epigrams, divine poems, 
and miscellaneous pieces, and procured for him among his contemporaries an 
extraordinary share of reputation, but now he is almost entirely forgotten. 
Either extreme does him injustice. Though he has not much harmony of 
versification, and but little, simplicity and naturalness in thought ana expres- 
sion, yet he exhibits much erudition, united to an exuberance of wit, and to 
a fancy, rich, vivid, and picturesque, though, at the same time, it must be con- 
fessed, not a little fantastical. Dr. Johnson, in his life of Cowley, considers him 
as the founder of the metaphysical school of poets; meaning, thereby, tne 



166 DONNE. [CHAELES I. 

faculty of wittily associating the most widely discordant images, and present- 
ing ideas under the most remote and fanciful aspects. 

His prose writings consist chiefly of sermons, which, though they have some 
of the faults of his poetry, are full of rich, condensed, and vigorous thought, 
and, what is far better, show the author to be an eminently holy man. As a 
preacher, old Izaak Walton says of him, " he is, in earnest, weeping some- 
times for his audience, sometimes with them ; always preaching to himself, 
like an angel from a cloud, but in none ; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to 
heaven, in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and courtship to 
amend their lives ; here picturing a vice so as to make it ugly to those that 
practised it ; and a virtue so as to make it beloved by those that loved it not ; 
and all this with a most particular grace, and an inexpressible addition of 
comeliness." l 

The following presents a very fair specimen of his poetry: indeed, it is 
more simple and natural than the greater part of it. The simile of the com- 
passes, whatever may be thought of its beauty or fitness, is certainly original. 

THE FAREWELL. 

As virtuous men pass mildly away, 
And whisper to their souls to go ; 
Whilst some of their sad friends do say, 
The breath goes now — and some say, no ; 

So let us melt, and make no noise, 
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 
'Twere profanation of our joys 
To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, 
Men reckon what it did, and meant: 
But trepidation of the spheres, 
Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull, sublunary lovers' love 
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
Absence, because it doth remove 
Those things which alimented it. 

But we're by love so much refined, 
That ourselves know not what it is ; 
Inter-assured of the mind, 
Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls, therefore, (which are one,) 
Though I must go, endure not yet 
A breach, but an expansion, 
Like gold to airy thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so 
As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show 
To move, but doth, if th' other do. 

i Read— Johnson's "Life of Cowley;" also, an article in the " Retrospective Review," viii. SI, 
which gives to his poetry higher praise than we think it deserves ; also, some remarks in " Drake's 
Shakspeare," i. 615; and above all, Izaak Walton's "Life." A selection from his prose works was 
published at Oxford, 1840, in one small volume. 



1625-1649.] donne. 107 

And though it in the centre sit, 
Yet when the other far doth roam, 
It leans, and hearkens after it, 
And grows erect as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must 
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; 
Thy firmness makes my circles just, 
And makes me end where I begun. 

But we turn with more pleasure to his prose :— 
THE PSALMS. 

The Psalms are the manna of the church. As manna tasted to 
every man like that he liked best, so do the Psalms minister in- 
struction and satisfaction to every man, in every emergency and 
occasion. David was not only a clear prophet of Christ himself, 
but a prophet of every particular Christian ; he foretells what I, 
what any shall do, and suffer, and say. And as the whole Book 
of Psalms is (as the spouse speaks of the name of Christ) an oint- 
ment poured out upon all sorts of sores, a cerecloth that supples 
all bruises, a balm that searches all wounds ; so are there some 
certain Psalms that are imperial Psalms, that command over all 
affections, and spread themselves over all occasions, catholic, uni- 
versal Psalms, that apply themselves to all necessities. 

ALL CHRISTIANS ARE TO PREACH BY EXAMPLE. 

If you be a holy people, you are also a royal priesthood ; if you 
be all God's saints, you are all God's priests ; and if you be his 
priests, it is your office to preach too ; as we by words, you by 
your holy works ; as we by contemplation, you by conversation ; 
as we by our doctrine, so you by your lives, are appointed by God 
to preach to one another : and therefore every particular man 
must wash his own feet, look that he have speciosos pedes, 1 that 
his example may preach to others, for this is truly a regal priest- 
hood, not to work upon others by words, but by actions. If we 
love one another as Christ loved us, we must wash one another's 
feet, as he commanded his apostles ; there is a priestly duty lies 
upon every man, brotherly to reprehend a brother whom he sees 
trampling in foul ways, wallowing in foul sins. 

GOD MAY BE WORSHIPPED ANYWHERE. 

It is true, God may be devoutly worshipped anywhere ; in all 
places of his dominion, my soul shall praise the Lord, says David. 
It is not only a concurring of men, a meeting of so many bodies 
that makes a church ; if thy soul and body be met together, an 



103 DONNE. [CHARLES I. 

humble preparation of the mind, and a reverent disposition of the 
body ; if thy knees be bent to the earth, thy hands and eyes lifted 
up to heaven ; if thy tongue pray, and praise, and thine ears 
hearken to his answer ; if all thy senses, and powers, and facul- 
ties be met with one unanime purpose to worship thy God, thou 
art, to this intendment, a church, thou art a congregation ; here are 
two or three met together in bis name, and he is in the midst of 
them, though thou be alone in thy chamber. The church of God 
should be built upon a rock, and yet Job had his church upon a 
dunghill ; the church is to be placed upon the top of a hill, and 
yet the prophet Jeremy had his church in a miry dungeon ; con- 
stancy and settledness belong to the church, and yet Jonah had 
his church in the whale's belly ; the lion that roars, and seeks 
whom he may devour, is an enemy to this church, and yet Daniel 
had his church in the lion's den ; the waters of rest in the Psalm 
were a figure of the church, and yet the three children had their 
church in the fiery furnace ; liberty and life appertain to the 
church, and yet Peter and Paul had their church in prison, and 
the thief had his church upon the cross. Every particular man 
is himself a temple of the Holy Ghost ; yea, destroy this body by 
death and corruption in the grave, and yet there shall be a re- 
newing, a re-edifying of all those temples, in the general resurrec- 
tion : when we shall rise again, not only as so many Christians, 
but as so many Christian churches, to glorify the apostle and 
high-priest of our profession, Christ Jesus, in that eternal Sabbath. 
Every person, every place is fit to glorify God in. 

THE GREATEST CROSS IS TO HAVE NO CROSS. 

There cannot be so great a cross as to have none. I lack one 
loaf of that daily bread that I pray for, if I have no cross ; for 
afflictions are our spiritual nourishment : I lack one limb of that 
body I must grow into, which is the body of Christ Jesus, if I 
have no crosses ; for, my conformity to Christ (and that is my 
being made up into his body) must be accomplished in my fulfil- 
ling his sufferings in his flesh. 

ANGER. 

Anger is not always a defect, nor an inordinateness in man ; 
Be angry, and sin not: anger is not utterly to be rooted out of 
our ground and cast away, but transplanted ; a gardener does 
well to grub up thorns in his garden ; there they would hinder 
good herbs from growing : but he does well to plant those thorns 
in his hedges ; there they keep bad neighbors from entering. In 
many cases, where there is no anger, there is not much zeal. 



1625-1649.] drayton. 169 



MICHAEL DRAYTON. 1563—1631. 

This very voluminous and once popular writer has sunk into an oblivion 
which he does not deserve. His poems are mostly of an historical and topo- 
graphical character. Such is his great work, his " Poly-Olbion," > a work of 
stupendous labor and accurate information, on which he rested his hopes of 
immortality. It is a very singular poem, and certainly entirely original in 
its plan, describing the woods, mountains, valleys, and rivers of England 
with all their associations, traditional, historical, and antiquarian. That " it 
possesses many beauties which are poetically great, and is full of delineations 
which are graphically correct," is no doubt true ; but, after all, it is a poem 
that will always be consulted rather for the information it conveys, than for 
the pleasure it produces. His other historical poems are his " Barons Warres," 
being an account of "The lamentable Civil Warres of Ed ward the Second and 
the Barons;" his "Legends;" his "Battle of Agincourt;" and " England's Heroi- 
cal Epistles." 

But it is for his pastoral and miscellaneous poems that Drayton will continue 
to be known and valued. Some of these possess beauties of the highest order. 
Such, for instance, is the fairy poem called Nymphidia, than which a more 
exquisite creation of the fancy can hardly be found ; and it has been well 
remarked, that " had he written nothing else he would deserve immortality." 
His "Shepherd's Garland" is a pastoral poem, first published under this title, 
but afterwards revised and reprinted under the name of Eclogues. His other 
miscellaneous poems consist of odes, elegies, sonnets, religious effusions, &c 
Drayton died December 23, 1631, and was buried in Westminster Abbey . a 

CHORUS OF THE BIRDS. 

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, 

No sooner does the earth her flowery bosom brave, 

At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, 

But "hunt's-up" to the morn the feather d sylvans sing: 

And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll, 

Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole 

Those quiristers are perched, with many a speckled breast. 

Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glittering East 

Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night 

Bespangled had with pearl to please the morning's sight : 

On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats, 

Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, 

That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air 

Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere. 

The throstle, with shrill sharps ; as purposely he song 

T' awake the lustless sun ; or chiding that so long 

He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill ; 

The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill ; 

As nature him had markt of purpose to let see 

That from all other birds his tunes should different be, 

1 From the Greek iroWa (polla), " many things;" that is, many things about Albion, or England. 

2 Read— a notice of Drayton in Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times;" another, in the third volume 
of D'Israeli's "Amenities of Literature;" and another, in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative 
Biography." 

15 



170 DRAYTON. [CHARLES ft 

For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May : 

Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play ; 

When, in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by 

In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply, 

As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw. 

To Philomel, the next the linnet we prefer ; 

And by that warbling bird the wood-lark place we then, 

The red-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast, and the wren. 

The yellow pate; which, though she hurt the blooming tiee, 

Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. 

And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, 

That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. 

The tydy from her notes as delicate as they, 

The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay ; 

The softer with the shrill, (some hid among the leaves, 

Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves,) 

Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun 

Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, 

And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps 

To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. 

Foly-Olbian 
THE PARTING. 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part; 

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart 

That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows ; 

And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. — 
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 

PALACE OF THE FAIRIES : QUEEN MAb's CHARIOT AND JOURNEY 

This palace standeth in the air, 
By necromancy placed there, 
That it no tempest needs to fear, 

Which way soe'er it blow it : 
And somewhat southward toward the noon, 
Whence lies a way up to the moon, 
And thence the Fairy can as soon 

Pass to the earth below it. 

The walls of spiders' legs are made, 
Well morticed and finely laid, 
He was the master of his trade 

It curiously that builded ; 
The windows of the eyes of cats, 
And for the roof, instead of slats, 
Is cover'd with the skins of bats, 

With moonshine that are gilded. 



1.625-1649.] DKAYTON. 171 

******** 
The queen her maids doth call, 



And bids them to be ready all, 
She would go see her summer hall, 

She could no longer tarry. 
Her chariot ready straight is made, 
Each thing therein is fitting laid, 
That she by nothing might be stay"d, 

For nought must her be letting : 
Four nimble gnats the horses were, 
The harnesses of gossamer, 
Fly Cranion, her charioteer, 

Upon the coach-box getting. 
Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, 
Which for the colors did excel ; 
The fair queen Mab becoming well, 

So lively was the limning : 
The seat the soft wool of the bee, 
The cover (gallantly to see) 
The wing of a py'd butterflee, 

I trow, 'twas simple trimming. 
The wheels composed of crickets" bones } 
And daintily made for the nonce, 
For fear of rattling on the stones, 

With thistle-down they shod it : 
For all her maidens much did fear, 
If Oberon had chanc'd to hear, 
That Mab his queen should have been then, 

He would not have abode it. 
She mounts her chariot with a trice, 
Nor would she stay for no advice, 
Until her maids, that were so nice, 

To wait on her were fitted, 
But ran herself away alone ; 
Which when they heard, there was not one 
Bat hasted after to be gone, 

As she had been diswitted. 
Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, 
Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were 
To Mab their sovereign dear, 

Her special maids of honor ; 
Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin, 
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, 
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, 

The train that wait upon her. 
Upon a grasshopper they got, 
And what with amble and with trot, 
For hedge nor ditch they spared not, 

But after her they hie them. 
A cobweb over them they throw, 
To shield the wind if it should blow, 
Themselves they wisely could bestow, 

Lest any should espy them. 

From the Nymphiduu 



172 JONSON. [CHARLES I. 



BEN JONSON. 1574—1637. 

Benjamin Jonson, or Ben Jonson, as he signed his own name, was the 
son of a clergyman in Westminster, and born in 1574, about a month after 
his father's death. He was educated at Westminster, but his mother, having 
taken a bricklayer for her second husband, removed him from school, where 
he had made extraordinary progress, to work under his step-father. Dis- 
gusted with this occupation, he escaped, enlisted in the army, and went to 
the Netherlands. On his return to England, he entered Cambridge ; but 
the failure of pecuniary resources obliging him to quit the university, he 
applied to the theatre for employment. Though at first his station was a 
low one, he soon, by his own industry and talent, rose to distinction, and 
gained great celebrity as a dramatic writer. His works altogether consist 
of about fifty-four dramatic pieces, 1 but by far the greater part of them are 
masques and interludes, for which his genius seemed better fitted, being too 
destitute of passion and sentiment for the regular drama. " His tragedies," 
says a critic, " seem to bear about the same resemblance to Shakspeare's, that 
sculpture does to actual life." 2 There are, however, interspersed throughout 
his works, many lyrical pieces that have peculiar neatness and beauty of 
diction, and will bear a comparison with any in our language. Of these, the 
following may be taken as specimens : — 



Beauties, have ye seen this toy, 
Called love ! a little boy 
Almost naked, wanton, blind, 
Cruel now, and then as kind 1 
If he be amongst ye, say ! 
He is Venus 1 run-away. 

He hath of marks about him plenty, 
You shall know him among twenty : 
All his body is a fire, 
And his breath a flame entire, 
That, being shot like lightning in, 
Wounds the heart, but not the skin. 

He doth bear a golden bow, 
And a quiver, hanging low, 
Full of arrows, that outbrave 
Dian's shafts, where, if he have 
Any head more sharp than other. 
With that first he strikes his mother. 

1 The four best comedies of Jonson are, "Every Man in his Humor," "The Silent Woman," "Vol- 
pone or The Fox," and the " Alchemist." Two of his best tragedies are entitled, " Catiline," and 
"The Fall of Sejanus." 

2 " Many were the wit-combats betwixt Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, which two I beheld like a 
Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far 
higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with the English man-of-war, 
Jesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with aU tides, tack about, and take advantage of all 
winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention."— Fuller's Worthies. 



1625-1649.] jonson. 173 

Trust him not : his words, though sweet, 

Seldom with his heart do meet • 

All his practice is deceit, 

Every gift is but a bait : 

Not a kiss but poison bears, 

And most treason in his tears. 

If by these ye please to know him, 
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
Though ye had a will to hide him, 
Now, we hope, ye'U not abide him. 
Since ye hear his falser play, 
And that he's Venus' run-away. 

HYMN TO CYNTHIA. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair, 

State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear, when day did cjose 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
Give unto the flying heart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

TL«» v»'iru v rp a) prose composition of Ben Jonson is a small tract entitu,d 
'Discoveiics, vx. Observations on Poetry and Eloquence." It displays his 
judgment driii Classical learning to great advantage, and the style is unusually 
close, precise, and pure. 

DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING WELL. 1 

For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries : — 
to read the best authors; observe the best speakers; and much 
exercise of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to be 
written, and after what manner ; he must first think, and excogi- 
tate his matter ; then choose his words, and examine the weight 
of either. Then take care in placing and ranking both matter 
and words, that the composition be comely ; and to do this with 
diligence and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so 
it be labored and accurate ; seek the best, and be not glad of the 
forward conceits, or first words that offer themselves to us, but 

1 "Ben Jcmson's directions for writing well should be indelibly imprebsed upon the mind of evry 
student."— Urate's Essays. 

15* 



174 JONSON. [CHARLES I. 

judge of what we invent, and order what we approve. Repeat 
often what we have formerly written ; which, besides that it helps 
the consequence, and makes the juncture better, quickens the 
heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of sitting down, 
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going back. 
As we see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest that 
fetch their race largest; or, as in throwing a dart or javelin, we 
force back our arms, to make our loose the stronger. Yet if we 
have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the steering out of our sail, 
so the favor of the gale deceive us not. For all that we invent 
doth please us in the conception or birth ; else we would never 
set it down. But the safest is to return to our judgment, and 
handle over again those things, the easiness of which might make 
them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their begin- 
nings. They imposed upon themselves care and industry. They 
did nothing rashly. They obtained first to write web 1 , and then 
custom made it easy and a habit. By little and little, their mat- 
ter showed itself to them more plentifully ; their words answered, 
their composition followed ; and all, as in a well-ordered family, 
presented itself in the place. So that the sum of all is, ready 
writing makes not good writing ; but good writing brings on 
ready writing. 

CHARACTER OF LORD BACON. 

One, though he be excellent, and the chief, is not to be imitated 
alone ; for no imitator ever grew up to his author ; likeness is 
always on this side truth. Yet there happened in my time one 
noble speaker, who was full of gravity in his speaking. His lan- 
guage (where he could spare or pass by a jest) was nobly censo- 
rious. No man ever spake more neatly, more pressly, more 
weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he 
uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own 
graces. His hearers could not cough, or look aside from him, 
without loss. He commanded where he spoke ; and had his 
judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their af- 
fections more in his power. The fear of every man that heard 
him was, lest he should make an end. 

My conceit of his person was never increased toward him by his 
place or honors, but I have and do reverence him for the great- 
ness that was only proper to himself, in that he seemed to me 
ever, by his work, one of the greatest men, and most worthy of 
admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever 
prayed that God would give him strength ; for greatness he could 
not want. Neither could I condole in a word or syllable for him, 
ds knowing no accident could do harm to virtue, but rather help 
to make it manifest. 



1625-1649.] HERBERT. 175 



GEORGE HERBERT. 1593—1633. 

George Herbert, a most pious and learned divine of the Church of 
England, is the author of the " Country Parson, his Character and Rule of 
Holy Life," and also of " Sacred Poems, and Private Ejaculations." We 
cannot give the object of the former better than in his own words : — " I have 
resolved to set down the form and character of a true pastor, that I may have 
a mark to aim at, which also I will set as high as I can, since he shoots higher 
that threatens the moon, than he that amis at a tree. Not that I think, if a 
man do not all which is here expressed, he presently sins, and displeases 
God; but that it is a good strife to go as far as we can in pleasing Him, who 
hath done so much for us." The work consists of thirty-seven chapters, treat- 
ing of so many different duties of the " Pastor." The last chapter is 

CONCERNING DETRACTION. 

The Country Parson — perceiving that most, when they are at 
leisure, make others' faults their entertainment and discourse; 
and that even some good men think, so they speak truth, they 
may disclose another's fault — finds it somewhat difficult how to 
proceed in this point. For if he absolutely shut up men's mouths, 
and forbid all disclosing of faults, many an evil may not only be, 
but also spread in his parish, without any remedy, (which cannot 
be applied without notice,) to the dishonor of God, and the infec- 
tion of his flock, and the discomfort, discredit, and hinderance of 
the pastor. On the other side, if it be unlawful to open faults, no 
benefit or advantage can make it lawful ; for we must not do evil 
that good may come of it. 

Now the Parson, taking this point to task, (which is so exceeding 
useful, and hath taken so deep root that it seems the very life and 
substance of conversation,) hath proceeded thus far in the discuss- 
ing of it. Faults are either notorious or private. Again, notorious 
faults are either such as are made known by common fame ; and of 
these those that know them may talk, so they do it not with sport, 
but commiseration : — or else, such as have passed judgment, and 
been corrected either by whipping, imprisoning, or the like. Of 
these also men may talk ; and more, they may discover them to 
those that knew them not : because infamy is a part of the sen- 
tence against malefactors, which the law intends, as is evident by 
those which are branded for rogues that they may be known, or 
put into the stocks that they may be looked upon. But some 
may say, though the law allow this, the gospel doth not : which 
hath so much advanced charity, and ranked backbiters among the 
generation of the wicked. But this is easily answered. As the 
executioner is not uncharitable that takes away the life of the con 
demned, except, besides his office, he adds a tincture of private 
malice in the joy and haste of acting his part ; so neither is he 



176 HERBERT. [CHARLES k 

that defames him whom the law would have defamed, except he 
also do it out of rancor. For, in infamy, all are executioners ; and 
the law gives a malefactor to all to be defamed. And, as malefac- 
tors may lose and forfeit their goods or life ; so may they theii 
good name, and the possession thereof, which, before their offence 
and judgment, they had in all men's breasts. For all are honest, 
till the contrary be proved. — Besides, it concerns the common- 
wealth that rogues should be known ; and charity to the public 
hath the precedence of private charity. So that it is so far from 
being a fault to discover such offenders, that it is a duty rather; 
which may do much good, and save much harm. — Nevertheless, 
if the punished delinquent shall be much troubled for his sins, 
and turn quite another man, doubtless then also men's affections 
and words must turn, and forbear to speak of that which even 
God himself hath forgotten. 

As a poet, Herbert ranks among the metaphysical class, belonging to the 
same school with John Donne. His poems are generally of a serious charac- 
ter, relating either to the grave realities of this life, or the momentous con- 
cerns of another. Most of them, however, are so quaint, so filled with far- 
fetched images and illustrations, and are so recondite in their meaning, that 
they cannot be read with much pleasure. The following are two of his best 
piece^: 1 — 

SUNDAY. 

day most calm, most bright ! 
The fruit of this, the next world's bud ; 
Th' endorsement of supreme delight, 
Writ by a friend, and with his blood ; 
The couch of time; care's balm and bay; 
The week were dark, but for thy light ; — 

Thy torch doth show the way. 

The other days and thou 
Make up one man ; whose face thou art, 
Knocking at heaven with thy brow : 
The worky days are the back-part ; 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoop and bow, 

Till thy release appear. 

Man had straight forward gone 
To endless death. But thou dost pull 
And turn us round, to look on one, 
Whom, if we were not very dull, 
We could not choose but look on still ; 
Since there is no place so alone, 

The which he doth not fill. 

1 Bcfld — Willmott's " Lives of the English Sacred Poets," which contains well-written notices ol 
Davies, Sanays, Wither, Giles Fletcher, auarles, Crashaw, Milton, Watts, Young, Blair, Cowper, 
and others. 



1025-1649.] carew. 177 

Sundays the pillars are 
On which heaven's palace arched lies : 
The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities. 
They are the fruitful bed and borders 
In God"s rich garden ; that is bare, 

Which parts their ranks and ordeis. 

The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on time's string, 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal, glorious King. 
On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope ; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife ; 

More plentiful than hope. 

***** 

Thou art a day of mirth : 
And, where the week-days trail on ground, 
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth. 
Oh, let me take thee at the bound, 
Leaping with thee from seven to seven; 
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, 

Fly hand in hand to heaven ! 

THE BOSOM SIN. 1 

Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round ! 

Parents first season us ; then schoolmasters 

Deliver to us laws ; they send us bound 
To rules of reason, holy messengers, 
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, 

Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, 

Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, 
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, 

The sound of glory ringing in our ears ; 

Without, our shame; within, our consciences; 
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears : 

Yet all these fences and their whole array 

One cunning bosom sin blows quite away. 



THOMAS CAREW. 1589—1639. 



Of the personal history of Thomas Carew we have not many particulars 
He was educated at Oxford, and, after travelling abroad, was received with 
great favor at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and personal 
accomplishments. All his poems are short and occasional, and were exceed- 
ingly popular at the time. " Sprightly, polished, and perspicuous," says 
Headley, " every part of his works displays the man of sense, gallantry, and 

1 "This sonnet is equally admirable for the weight, number, and expression of the thoughts, and 
Tor the simple dignity of the language; unless, indeed, a fastidious taste should object tc the latter 
half of the sixth line."— Coleridge. 

m" 



ITS CAREW. [CHARLES I. 

breeding. He has the ease, without the pedantry of Waller, and perhaps less 
conceit :" and Campbell remarks that " his poems have touches of elegance 
and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded without 
a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and 
polish of later times with many of the genial and warm tints of the elder 
muse." It is deeply to be regretted that he should have employed such 
talents upon subjects generally so trivial, when he might have shone in the 
higher walks of poetry, and built for himself a wide-spread fame. 

EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS. 

The Lady Mary Villiers lies 
Under this stone : With weeping eyes 
The parents that first gave her birth, 
And their sad friends, laid her in earth : 
If any of them (reader) were 
Known unto thee, shed a tear : 
Or if thyself possess a gem, 
As dear to thee, as this to them ; 
Though a stranger to this place, 
Bewail in theirs, thine own hard case; 
For thou perhaps at thy return 
Mayst find thy darling in an urn. 

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 

Starve not yourself, because you may 
Thereby make me pine away ; 
Nor let brittle beauty make 
You your wiser thoughts forsake : 
For that lovely face will fail ; 
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail ; 
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, 
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun: 
Most fleeting when it is most dear ; 
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. 
These curious locks so aptly twined, 
Whose every hair a soul doth bind, 
Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
White and cold as winter's snow. 
That eye, which now is Cupid's nest, 
Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose. 
And what will then become of all 
Those, whom now you servants call 1 
Like swallows, when your summer's done, 
They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. 

PLEASURE. 

Bewitching siren ! gilded rottenness ! 
Thou hast with cunning artifice display'd 
Th' enamell'd outside, and the honied verge 
Of the fair cup where deadly poison lurks. 
Witliin, a thousand sorrows dance the round; 
And like a shell, pain circles thee without. 



1625-1649.] MARKHAM. 179 

Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps, 

Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their west decline, 

Doth to a giants spreading form extend 

Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art pain, 

Greedy intense desire ; and the keen edge 

Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee, 

And cuts thy slender thread ; but still the terror 

And apprehension of thy hasty end 

Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets : 

Yet thy Circean charms transform the world. 

Captains that have resisted war and death, 

Nations that over fortune have triumph'd, 

Are by thy magic made effeminate : 

Empires, that knew no limits but the poles, 

Have in thy wanton lap melted away. 

Thou wert the author of the first excess 

That drew this reformation on the gods ; 

Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven 

Banish' d th effect, will there enthrone the cause 1 

To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence ; 

There dwell, for ever drown*d in brutish sense. 



GERVASE MARKHAM. 

Gervase Markham was a very voluminous writer in the reigns of Eliza 
beth, James I., and Charles I., but neither the period of his birth nor his 
death has been ascertained. He commenced author about the year 1592, and 
bved to a good old age, dying in the latter part of the reign of Charles I. 
His education had been very liberal, for he was esteemed a good classical 
scholar, and was well versed in the French, Italian, and Spanish languages. 
He seems to have been a general compiler for the booksellers, writing upon 
almost every subject. His popularity in his day was unrivalled, many of his 
works reaching numerous editions. 1 The following excellent remarks are 
from his work on Housewifery : 2 — 

THE GOOD HOUSEWIFE. 

Next unto her sanctity and holiness of Jife, it is meet that oui 
English housewife be a woman of great modesty and temperance, 
as well inwardly as outwardly ; inwardly, as in her behavior 
and carriage towards her husband, wherein she shall shun all vio- 
lence of rage, passion, and humor, coveting less to direct than tc 

1 See a list of his work's in Lowndes's "Bibliography," HI. 1211, and in Drake's " Shakspeare," 
J. 506: also in the " Censura Literaria," v. 105—117. 

2 I must give the title as a curiosity: "The English House-Wife, containing the inward and out- 
ward virtues which ought to be in a compleat woman. As her skill in physick, chirurgery, cookery 
extraction of oyls, banqueting-stuff, ordering of great feasts, preserving of all sorts of wlne.s, con- 
ceited secrets, distillations, perfumes, ordering of wool, hemp, flax; making cloth and dying, the 
knowledge of dayries, office of malting, of oats, their excellent rules in families; ot brewing, baking, 
and all other things belonging to an household. A work generally approved, and now the eighth 
time much augmented, purged, and made most profitable and necessary for all men, and the general 
good of this nation. By G. Markhain." 



380 SANDYS. [CHARLES I. 

be directed, appearing ever unto him pleasant, amiable, and de- 
lightful ; and, though occasion of mishaps or the misgovernment 
of his will may induce her to contrary thoughts, yet virtuously to 
suppress them, and with a mild sufferance rather to call him home 
from his error, than with the strength of anger to abate the least 
spark of his evil; calling into her mind, that evil and uncomely 
language is deformed, though uttered even to servants ; but most 
monstrous and ugly, when it appears before the presence of a 
husband : outwardly, as in her apparel and diet, both which she 
shall proportion according to the competency of her husband's 
estate and calling, making her circle rather strait than large : for 
it is a rule, if we extend to the uttermost, we take away increase ; 
If we go a hair's breadth beyond, we enter into consumption ; but 
if we preserve any part, we build strong forts against the adver- 
saries of fortune, provided that such preservation be honest and 
conscionable. 

To conclude, our English housewife must be of chaste thoughts, 
stout courage, patient, untired, watchful, diligent, witty, pleasant, 
constant in friendship, full of good neighborhood, wise in dis- 
course, but not frequent therein, sharp and quick of speech, but 
not bitter or talkative, secret in her affairs, comfortable in her coun- 
sels, and generally skilful in the worthy knowledges which do 
belong to her vocation. 



GEORGE SANDYS. 1587—1643. 



This eminent sacred poet, the son of Archbishop Sandys, was born in 
1587, and in his eleventh year he entered St. Mary's Hall, Oxford. He spent 
many years in travelling in the East, visiting Asia Minor, Palestine, Persia, 
Egypt, &c; and notwithstanding the labors of more recent travellers, his 
works still have a high reputation, and are still referred to as of the first au- 
thenticity and credit. To an ardent spirit of curiosity and research, he united 
a pure and discriminating taste, and a spirit of true piety. He died in 1643. 1 

The principal poetical work of Sandys is a translation of the Psalms of 
David, incomparably the most poetical in the English language, but yet, at the 
present day, scarcely known. 

THE LAMENTATION OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN. 

Thy beauty, Israel, is fled, 

Sunk to the dead ; 
How are the valiant fallen ! the slain 

Thy mountains stain. 
Oh ! let it not in Gath be known, 
Nor in the streets of Ashkelon; 



l See Sir Egertcm Bryclges's " Censura Literaria," iv. 420, and x. 394. 



t 



1025-1649.] sandys. 181 

Lest that sad story should excite 

Their dire delight! 
Lest in the torrent of our woe, 

Their pleasure flow : 
Lest their triumphant daughters ring 
Their cymbals, and their paeans sing. 

Yon hills of Gilboa, never may 

You offerings pay; 
No morning dew, nor fruitful showers, 

Clothe you with flowers : 
Saul and his arms there made a spoil. 
As if untouch'd with sacred oil. 

The bow of noble Jonathan 

Great battles won; 
His arrows on the mighty fed, 

With slaughter red. 
Saul never raised his arm in vain, 
His sword still glutted with the slain. 

How lovely ! how pleasant ! when 

They lived with men ! 
Than eagles swifter ; stronger far 

Than lions are : 
Whom love in life so strongly tied, 
The stroke of death could not divide. 

Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul ; 

Lament his fall, 
Who fed you with the earth's increase, 

And crown'd with peace ; 
With robes of Tyrian purple deck'd, 
And gems which sparkling light reflect 

How are thy worthies by the sword 

Of war devour'd ! 
O Jonathan! the better part 

Of my torn heart ! 
The savage rocks have drunk thy blood : 
My brother ! how kind ! how good ! 

Thy love was great; never more 

To man, man bore ! 
No woman, when most passionate, 

Loved at that rate ! 
How are the mighty fallen in fight ! 
They and their glory set in night! 

The following is a part of his preface to his travels, admirable alike for the 
beauty and piety of its spirit, and for the vigor of its style : — 

THE FALL OF ANCIENT EMPIRES. 

The parts I speak of are the most renowned countries and king- 
doms : once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires ; 
the theatres of valor and heroical actions ; the soils enriched with 
all earthly felicities ; the places where nature hath produced her 



182 CHILLING WORTH. [CHARLES I ■ 

wonderful works ; where arts and sciences have been invented, 
and perfected ; where wisdom, virtue, policy, and civility have 
been planted, have flourished : and, lastly, where God himself 
did place his own commonwealth, gave laws and oracles, inspired 
his prophets, sent angels to converse with men ; above all, where 
the Son of God descended to become man ; where he honored the 
earth with his beautiful steps, wrought the work of our redemp- 
tion, triumphed over death, and ascended into glory. Which 
countries, once so glorious and famous for their happy estate, are 
now, through vice and ingratitude, become the most deplored 
spectacles of extreme misery. They remain waste and overgrown 
with bushes, receptacles of wild beasts, of thieves and murderers ; 
large territories dispeopled, or thinly inhabited ; goodly cities 
made desolate ; sumptuous buildings become ruins, glorious tem- 
ples either subverted or prostituted to impiety ; true religion dis- 
countenanced and oppressed ; all nobility extinguished ; no light 
of learning permitted, nor virtue cherished ; violence and rapine 
insulting over all, and leaving no security save to an abject mind 
and unlooked-on poverty ; which calamities of theirs, so great and 
deserved, are to the rest of the world as threatening instructions. 
For assistance wherein, I have not only related what I saw of 
their present condition ; but, so far as convenience might permit, 
presented a brief view of the former estates and first antiquities 
of those people and countries : thence to draw a right image of the 
frailty of man, the mutability of whatsoever is worldly ; and as- 
surance that as there is nothing unchangeable saving God, so no- 
thing stable but by his grace and protection 



WILLIAM CHILLING WORTH. 1602—1644. 

Okte of the most distinguished divines of the church of England, and one 
of the ablest opposers of the doctrines of the church of Rome, is William 
Chillingworth. He was born in Oxford, in 1602, and studied there. Soon 
after taking his degree, a Jesuit, by the name of Fisher, argued him into a 
belief of the doctrines of Popery, and he consequently went to the Jesuits' 
college at Douay, and there studied for some time. But his friends induced 
him to return to Oxford, where, after additional study of the points of differ- 
ence between the Papists and Protestants, he was convinced of his error, and 
in his great work, soon after published, entitled " The Religion of Protestants 
a Safe Way to Salvation," showed himself to be one of the most able defend- 
ers of the Protestant church that England ever produced. In it, he maintains 
that the Scriptures are the only rule of faith and practice, and the only rule to 
which appeals ought to be made in theological controversies. These points 
he proves conclusively, and the work has ever been considered as a model 
pf perspicuous reasoning. 

Locke, in one of his works, after setting forth the great importance of per- 



1625-1649.] CHILLINGWORTH. 183 

spicuity in the art of speaking, says, " There must also be right reasoning, 
without which perspicuity serves but to expose the speaker. And for attain- 
ing this end, I should propose the constant reading of Chilling worth, who by 
his example, will both teach perspicuity and the way of right reasoning, bet- 
ter than any work I know." And Gibbon, the historian, alluding to our 
author, on his recantation from popery, says, "His new creed was built on 
the principle, that the Bible is our sole judge, and private reason our sole 
interpreter ; and he most ably maintains this position in the ' Religion of a 
Protestant,' a book which is still esteemed the most solid defence of the Re 
formation." 

THE NECESSITY OF AN UNADULTERATED SCRIPTURE. 

He that would usurp an absolute lordship and tyranny over any 
people, need not put himself to the trouble and difficulty of abro- 
gating and disannulling the laws, made to maintain the common 
liberty; for he may frustrate their intent, and compass his own 
designs as well, if he can get the power and authority to interpret 
them as he pleases, and add to them what he pleases, and to have 
his interpretations and additions stand for laws : if he can rule his 
people by his laws, and his laws by his lawyers. So the church 
of Rome, to establish her tyranny over men's consciences, needed 
not either to abolish or corrupt the Holy Scriptures, the pillars and 
supporters of Christian liberty : but the more expedite way, and 
therefore more likely to be successful, was, to gain the opinion 
and esteem of the public and authorized interpreter of them, and 
the authority of adding to them what doctrine she pleased, under 
the title of traditions or definitions. The matter being once thus 
ordered, and the Holy Scriptures being made in effect not your 
directors and judges, (no farther than you please,) but your ser- 
vants and instruments, always pressed and in readiness to advance 
your designs, and disabled wholly with minds so qualified to pre- 
judice or impeach them ; it is safe for you to put a crown on their 
head, and a reed in their hands, and to bow before them, and ciy, 
" Hail, King of the Jews !" to pretend a great deal of esteem, and 
respect, and reverence to them, as here you do. But to little pur- 
pose is verbal reverence without entire submission and sincere 
obedience ; and, as our Saviour said of some, so the scripture, 
could it speak, I believe would say to you, " Why call ye me, 
Lord, Lord, and do not that which I command you ?" Cast away 
the vain and arrogant pretence of infallibility, which makes your 
errors incurable. Leave picturing God, and worshipping him by 
pictures. "Teach not for doctrine the commandments of men.'* 
Debar not the laity of the testament of Christ's blood. Let you** 
public prayers, and psalms, and hymns, be in such knguage a» 
is for the edification of the assistants. Take not from the clergy 
that liberty of marriage which Christ hath left them. Do not im- 
pose upon men that hum'lity of worshipping angels which St 



184 CHILLING WORTH. [CHARLES I. 

l\ml condemns. Teach no more proper sacrifices of Christ but 
one. Acknowledge them that die in Christ to be blessed, and " to 
rest from their labors." Acknowledge the sacrament after conse- 
cration to be bread and wine, as well as Christ's body and blood. 
Let not the weapons of your warfare be carnal, such as are mas- 
sacres, treasons, persecutions, and, in a word, all means either 
violent or fraudulent : these and other things, which the scripture 
commands you, do, and then we shall willingly give you such tes- 
timony as you deserve ; but till you do so, to talk of estimation, 
respect, and reverence to the scripture, is nothing else but talk. 

SCRIPTURE ALONE THE RULE OF FAITH. 

This presumptuous imposing of the senses of men upon the 
words of God, the special senses of men upon the general words 
of God, and laying them upon men's consciences together, under 
the equal penalty of death and damnation; this vain conceit that 
we can speak of the things of God better than in the words of 
God : this deifying our own interpretations, and tyrannous enforc- 
ing them upon others : this restraining of the word of God from 
that latitude and generality, and the understandings of men from 
that liberty, wherein Christ and the apostles left them, is, and 
hath been, the only fountain of all the schisms of the church, and 
that which makes them immortal ; the common incendiary of 
Christendom, and that which (as I said before) tears into pieces, 
not the coat, but the bowels and members of Christ. Take away 
these walls of separation, and all will quickly be one. Take away 
this persecuting, burning, cursing, damning of men for not sub- 
scribing to the words of men, as the words of God ; require of 
Christians only to believe Christ, and to call no man master but 
him only ; let those leave claiming infallibility that have no title 
to it, and let them that in their words disclaim it, disclaim it like- 
wise in their actions ; in a word, take away tyranny, which is 
the devil's instrument to support errors, and superstitions, and 
impieties, in the several parts of the world, which could not other- 
wise long withstand the power of truth ; I say, take away tyranny, 
and restore Christians to their just and full liberty of captivating 
their understanding to scripture only, and as rivers, when they 
have a free passage, run all to the ocean, so it may well be hoped, 
by God's blessing, that universal liberty, thus moderated, may 
quickly reduce Christendom to truth and unity. 

THE SIN OF DUELLING. 

We are so far from seeking that honor which is of God, from 
endeavoring to attain unto, or so much as countenancing such 
virtues, which Gcd hath often professed that he wiJi exalt and 



1625-1649.] cniLLiNGWORTH. 185 

glorify, such as humility, and patiently bearing of injuries, that 
we place our honor and reputation in the contrary; that is counted 
noble and generous in the world's opinion, which is odious and 
abominable in the sight of God. If thy brother offend or injure 
thee, forgive him, saith Christ ; if he proceed, forgive him : what 
until seven times ? Ay, until seventy times seven times. But 
how is this doctrine received now in the world ? What counsel 
would men, and those none of the worst sort, give thee in such a 
case ? How would the soberest, discreetest, well-bred Christians 
advise thee ? Why thus : If thy brother or thy neighbor have 
offered thee an injury, or affront, forgive him ? by no means ; of 
all things in the world take heed of that : thou art utterly undone 
in thy reputation then, if thou dost forgive him. What is to be 
done then ? Why, let not thy heart rest, let all other business 
and employment be laid aside, till thou hast his blood. What ! a 
man's blood for an injurious passionate speech, for a disdainful 
look ! Nay, this is not all : that thou mayest gain amongst men 
the reputation of a discreet well-tempered murderer, be sure thou 
killest him not in passion, when thy blood is hot and boiling with the 
provocation, but proceed with as much temper and settledness of 
reason, with as much discretion and preparedness, as thou wouldst 
to the communion : after some several days' meditation, invite him, 
mildly and affably, into some retired place ; and there let it be put 
to the trial, whether thy life or his must answer the injury. 

Oh most horrible Christianity ! That it should be a most sure 
settled way for a man to run into danger and disgrace with the 
world, if he shall dare to perform a commandment of Christ's, 
which is as necessary to be observed by him, if he have any hope 
of attaining heaven, as meat and drink is for the sustaining of his 
life ! That ever it should enter into the heart of a Christian, to 
walk so exactly and curiously contrary to the ways of God ; that 
whereas he every day and hour sees himself contemned and 
despised by thee, who art his servant, his creature, upon whom 
he might (without any possible imputation of unrighteousness) 
pour down the phials of his fierce wrath and indignation ; yet 
He, notwithstanding, is patient and long-suffering towards the< , 
hoping that his long-suffering may lead thee to repentance, and 
earnestly desiring and soliciting thee by his ministers to be recon- 
ciled unto him ! Yet, that thou, for all this, for a blow in anger, 
it may be, for a word, or less, shouldst take upon thee to send 
his soul, or thine, or, it may be, both, clogged and pressed with 
all your sins unrepented of, (for thou canst not be so wild as to 
think thou canst repent of thy sins, and yet resolve upon such a 
business,) to expect your sentence before the judgment-seat of 
God ; wilfully and irrecoverably to deprive yourselves of ail those 
blessed means which God had contrived for your salvation, the 

16* 



186 QUARLES. [CHARLES I. 

power of his word, the efficacy and virtue of his sacraments, all 
which you shall utterly exclude yourselves from, and leave your- 
selves in such a state, that it shall not be in God's power to do 
you any good I 1 

Sermon on the text, " The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God.'" 



FRANCIS QUARLES. 1592—1644. 

Francis Quarles was born at Stewards, near Romford, Essex, in 1592. 
He was educated at Christ's College, Cambridge, whence he went to Lin- 
coln's Inn, where " he studied," says his widow, " the laws of England, not 
so much out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbors, 
and to compose suits and differences between them." Subsequently he went 
over to Ireland, and became secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the break- 
ing out of the rebellion there, in 1641, he fled to England for safety, and died 
three years after. 

"There is not," says Montgomery, "in English literature a name more 
wronged than that of Quarles ; wronged, too, by those who ought best to have 
discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits in contradistinction 
to his defects." True, his writings are occasionally defaced by vulgarisms 
and deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his 
defects; the latter being comparatively few, while his works generally are 
characterized by great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. "He too 
often, no doubt," says Headley, " mistook the enthusiasm of devotion for the 
inspiration of fancy. To mix the waters of Jordan and Helicon in the same 
cup was reserved for the hand of Milton ; and for him, and him only, to find 
the bays of Mount Olivet equally verdant with those of Parnassus. Yet, as 
the effusions of a real poetical mind, however thwarted by untowardness of 
subject, will seldom be rendered totally abortive, we find in Quarles original 
imagery, striking sentiment, fertility of expression, and happy combinations ; 
with a compression of style that merits the observation of writers of verse." 

His chief poetical works are his " Emblems," " Divine Poems," and " Job 
Militant, with Meditations divine and moral." His "Emblems" consist of a 
set of quaint pictorial designs, referring to moral and religious ideas, and each 
elucidated by appropriate verses. 

O THAT THOU WOULDST HIDE ME IN THE GRAVE, THAT THOU WOULDST 
KEEP ME IN SECRET UNTIL THY WRATH BE PAST. 

Ah ! whither shall I fly ? what path untrod 
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod 
Of my offended, of my angry God ? 

1 " Will you intrust life to murderers, and liberty to despots ? "Will you constitute those legisla- 
tors, who despise you, and despise equal laws, and wage war with the eternal principles of Justice t 
Had the duellist destroyed your neighbor; had your own father been killed by the man who solicits 
your suffrage ; had your son, laid low by his hand, been brought to your door pale In death and wel- 
tering in blood, would you then think the crime a small one? Would you honor with your confi- 
dence, and elevate to power by your vote, the guilty monster ? And what would you think of your 
neighbors, if, regardless of your agony, they should reward him ? And yet, such scenes of unuttera- 
ble anguish are multiplied every year. Every year the duellist is cutting down the neighbor of 
somebody," &c. Head— an admirable sermon entitled "Remedy for Duelling," by Rev. Lyman 
Beecher, D. p., delivered shortly after Alexander Hamilton was murdered by Aaron Burr. 



1625-1649.] quarles. 187 

Where shall I sojourn ? what kind sea will hide 
My head from thunder ? where shall I abide, 
Until his flames be quencb'd or laid aside? 

What if my feet should take their hasty flight, 
And seek protection in the shades of night ? 
Alas ! no shades can blind the God of light. 

What if my soul should take the wings of day, 
And find some desert; if she springs away, 
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they. 

What if some solid rock should entertain 
My, frighted soul ? can solid rocks restrain 
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain ? 

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave, 

Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, 

What flame-eyed Fury means to smite, can save. 

'Tis vain to flee ; till gentle Mercy show 

Her better eye, the farther off we go, 

The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. 

Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly 
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh, 
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye. 

Great God ! there is no safety here below ; 

Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe ; 

'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow. 

THE WORLD. 

She's empty : hark ! she sounds : there's nothing there 

But noise to fill thy ear ; 
Thy vain inquiry can at length but find 

A blast of murmuring wind : 
It is a cask that seems as full as fair, 

But merely tunn'd with air. 
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds ; 

The soul that vainly founds 
Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't; 

The spark-engendering flint 
Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce 1 shall first 

Dissolve and quench thy thirst, 
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast 

With smooth-faced calms of rest. 
Thou mayst as well expect meridian light 

From shades of black-mouth'd night, 
As in this empty world to find a full delight. 

She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; 

What if some nattering blast 
Of flatuous honor should perchance be there, 

And whisper in thine ear? 

1 A dry crust. 



188 QUARLES. ["CHARLES I. 

It is but wind, and blows but where it list, 

And vanisheth like mist. 
Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind 

Would be so base to bind 
Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ? 

She's empty : hark ! she sounds : 'tis but a ball 

For fools to play withal ; 
The painted film but of a stronger bubble, 

That's lined with silken trouble. 
It is a world whose work and recreation 

Is vanity and vexation : 
A hag, repair 'd with vice-complexion 'd paint, 

A quest-house of complaint. 
It is a saint, a fiend ; worse fiend when most a saint. 

She's empty : hark ! she sounds : 'tis vain and void. 

What's here to be enjoy 'd 
But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, 

Drawn now and cross'd to-morrow ? 
Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, 

Revived with living death ? 
Fond youth, build thy hopes on surer grounds 

Than what dull flesh propounds : 
Trust not this hollow world ; she's empty : hark ! she sounds 

MERCY TEMPERING JUSTICE. 

Had not the milder hand of Mercy broke 
The furious violence of that fatal stroke 
Offended Justice struck, we had been quite 
Lost in the shadows of eternal night. 
Thy mercy, Lord, is like the morning sun, 
Whose beams undo what sable night hath done ; 
Or like a stream, the current of whose course, 
Restrain'd awhile, runs with a swifter force. 
Oh ! let me glow beneath those sacred beams, 
And after, bathe me in those silver streams ; 
To Thee alone my sorrows shall appeal : 
Hath earth a wound too hard for heaven to heal ? 

Though in his day Quarles was mostly known as a poet, he was also the 
author of a few prose works, the principal of which is the " Enchiridion, 1 
containing Institutions divine, contemplative, practical, moral, ethical, eco- 
nomical, political." Of this, Headley remarks, " had this little piece been 
written at Athens or Rome, its author would have been classed with the 
wise men of his country." The following are some specimens of it : — 

If thou be ambitious of honor, and yet fearful of the canker of 
honor, envy, so behave thyself, that opinion may be satisfied in 
this, that thou seekest merit, and not fame; and that thou attri- 
butest thy preferment rather to Providence than thy own virtue. 
Honor is a due debt to the deserver ; and who ever envied the 

1 Compounded of tv [en), "in," and %ttp (cheir), "the hand:"— something held "in the hand," a 
" manual.' Read— an article on this treatise in the Retrospective Review, ix. 358. 



1625-1649.] quaelbs. 189 

payment of a debt ? A just advancement is a providential act ; 
and who ever envied the act of Providence ? 

If evil men speak good, or good men evil, of thy conversation, 
examine all thy actions, and suspect thyself. But if evil men 
speak evil of thee, hold it as thy honor ; and, by way of thank- 
fulness, love them ; but upon condition that they continue to hate 
thee. 

To tremble at the sight of thy sin, makes thy faith the less apt 
to tremble : the devils believe and tremble, because they tremble 
at what they believe ; their belief brings trembling : thy trembling 
brings belief. 

If thou desire to be truly valiant, fear to do any injury : he 
that fears not to do evil, is always afraid to suffer evil ; he that 
never fears, is desperate ; and he that fears always, is a coward. 
He is the true valiant man, that dares nothing but what he may, 
and fears nothing but what he ought. 

If thou stand guilty of oppression, or wrongfully possest of 
another's right, see thou make restitution before thou givest an 
alms : if otherwise, what art thou but a thief, and makest God 
thy receiver ? 

When thou prayest for spiritual graces, let thy prayer be abso- 
lute; when for temporal blessings, add a clause of God's pleasure: 
in both, with faith and humiliation : so shalt thou, undoubtedly, 
receive what thou desirest, or more, or better. Never praye* 
rightly made, was made unheard; or heard, ungranted. 

Not to give to the poor, is to take from him. Not to feed the 
hungry, if thou hast it, is to the utmost of thy power to kill him. 
That, therefore, thou mayst avoid both sacrilege and murder, be 
charitable. 

Hath any wronged thee ? Be bravely revenged : slight it, and 
the work's begun ; forgive it, and 'tis finished : he is below him- 
self that is not above an injury. 

Gaze not on beauty too much, lest it blast thee ; nor too long, 
lest it blind thee ; nor too near, lest it burn thee : if thou like it, 
it deceives thee ; if thou love it, it disturbs thee ; if thou lust after 
it, it destroys thee : if virtue accompany it, it is the heart's para- 
dise ; if vice associate it, it is the soul's purgatory : it is the wise 
man's bonfire, and the fool's furnace. 

Use law and physic only for necessity ; they that use them 
otherwise, abuse themselves into weak bodies and light purses : 
they are good remedies, bad businesses, and worse recrea- 
tions. 

If what thou hast received from God thou sharest to the poor, 
thou hast gained a blessing by the hand ; if what thou hast taken 
from the poor, thou givest to God, thou hast purchased a curse 
into the bargain. He that puts to pious uses what he hath got 



190 DRUMMOND. [INTERREGNUM, 

by impious usury, robs the spittle 1 to make an hospital ; and the 
cry of the one will out-plead the prayers of the other. 

Give not thy tongue too great a liberty, lest it take thee prisoner. 
A word unspoken is, like the sword in the scabbard, thine ; if 
vented, thy sword is in another's hand. If thou desire to be held 
wise, be so wise as to hold thy tongue. 

Wisdom without innocency is knavery; innocency without 
wisdom is foolery : be, therefore, as wise as serpents, and innocent 
as doves. The subtilty of the serpent instructs the innocency of 
the dove ; the innocency of the dove corrects the subtilty of the 
serpent. What God hath joined together, let no man separate. 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 1585—1649. 

William: Drummcwd, of Hawthornden, the first Scottish poet that wrote 
well in English, was born in 1585. "To the scholar and the wit he added 
every elegant attainment. After forming his taste at the University of Edin- 
burgh, he enlarged his views by travelling and by a cultivation of the modern 
languages. At first he appears to have studied the law, but soon left it for 
more congenial pursuits. The character of his poetry is various, consisting 
of sonnets, epigrams, epitaphs, religious and other poems. His sonnets are 
the most beautiful, and some of them of the highest excellence. His greatest 
charm is, unaffected feeling, and unaffected language." 2 His feelings were 
so intense on the side of the royalists, that the execution of Charles is said to 
have hastened his death, which took place at the close of the same year, 
December, 1649. The following are specimens of his sonnets 3 : — 

THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE. 

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, 

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; 

Though solitary, -who f s not alone, 
But doth converse with that eternal Love. 

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, 
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow 'd dove, 

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 

! how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, 
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, 

Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath ! 
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights : 

Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. 

1 This teiin was originally applied to a lazar-house, or receptacle for persons affected with leprosy, 
but afterwards to an hospital of any kind. 

2 See Retrospective Review, ix. 358. 

Drummond's sonnets, I tl ink, come as near as almost any others to the perfection of this kind 
of writing, which should embody a sentiment, and every shade of a sentiment, as it varies with time 
and place and humor, with the extravagance or lightness of a momentary impression."— HazlMt. 



1C49-1660.] DKUMMOND. 191 

ON SLEEP. 

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 

Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, 

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, 
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppress'd ; 

Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things 
Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possess'd, 

And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
Thou spar'st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 

Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
To inward light, which thou art wont to show, 
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, 
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath ; 
I long to kiss the image of my death. 

The lady to whom he was engaged to be married was suddenly snatched 
away by d^ath, and the sonnets which dwell on his own afflictions are as 
full of true leeiing as poetic merit. 

ON SPRING. 

Sweet Spring, thou turn'st 1 with all thy goodly train, 
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers ; 

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, 
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers. 
Thou turn'st, sweet youth — but, ah ! my pleasant hours, 

And happy days, with thee come not again ; 

The sad memorials only of my pain 
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. 

Thou art the same which still thou wast before, 
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; 
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air 

Is gone*; nor gold nor gems her can restore. 
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, 
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. 

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face ? 
And skies enamell'd with both Indies' gold 1 
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, 

And all the glory of that starry place ? 
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, 

The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace ; 
The stately comeliness of forests old, 

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace ? 
What doth it serve to hear the sy Ivans' songs, 

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, 
Winch in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs'? 

For what doth serve all that this world contains, 
Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear, 
No part of them can have now with me here 1 

TO HIS LUTE. 

My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow 
With thy green mother in some shady grove. 



'Turn'st" is here used for "returnest.' 



192 CRASHAW. 



[INTERREGNUM* 



When immelodious winds but made ihee move, 
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow. 

Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, 
Which used in such harmonious strains to flow, 

Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above, 
What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear ■ 
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear j 

Be therefore silent as in woods before : 
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign. 
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, 
Of winters past or coming void of care, 
Well pleased with delights which present are, 

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers 

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 

A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs 

(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 

And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven ? 
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays. 



RICHARD CRASHAW. Died 1650.1 

Richard Crashaw, a religious poet, an accomplished scholar, and a pc wer 
ml and popular preacher, was born in London, but the date of his birth is 
unknown. His father was an author, and a preacher of the Temple church, 
London. He took his degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred 
poems of " Steps to the Temple." In the year 1644 he was ejected from his 
living on refusing to subscribe to the Covenant, and soon afterwards he pro- 
fessed his faith in the Roman Church. Through the influence of his friend 
Cowley, the poet, he was introduced to the exiled Queen Henrietta, who ob- 
tained for him a small office at Rome, where he died about the year 1650. 

The poems of Crashaw are not much known, but they " display delicate 
fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction." " He has," says 
Headley, "originality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the 
highest praise. 2 To his attainments, which were numerous and elegant, all 
nis biographers have borne witness." The lines on a prayer-book, Coleridge 
considers one of the best poems in our language. 



1 Poet and Saint I to thee alone are given 
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven. — Cowley. 
2 Pope, In his " Eloisa to Abelard, has borrowed largely from this poet. 



1049-1660.] crashaw. 193 

LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. 

Lo ! here a little volume, but large book, 

(Fear it not, sweet, 

It is no hypocrite,) 
Much larger in itself than in its look. 
It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all — 
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd thus small; 
To prove that true, schools used to tell, 
A thousand angels in one point can dwell 

It is love's great artillery, 

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie 

Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence. 

As from a snowy fortress of defence, 

Against the ghostly foe to take your part, 

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart 

It is the armory of light : 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You'll find it yields 
To holy hands and humble hearts, 

More swords and shields 
Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 
That hold these weapons, and the eyes 

Those of turtles, chaste and true, 
Wakeful and wise, 

Here is a friend sball fight for you. 
Hold but this book before your heart, 
Let prayer alone to play his part. 
But oh ! the heart 
That studies this high art 
Must be a sure housekeeper. 
And yet no sleeper. 

Dear soul, be strong, 

Mercy will come ere long, 
And bring her bosom full of blessings — 

Flowers of never-fading graces, 
To make immortal dressings, 

For worthy souls whose wise embraces 
Store up themselves for Him who is alone 
The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son. 

But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come, 
Shall find the wandering heart from home, 

Leaving her chaste abode 

To gad abroad 
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies ; * 

To take her pleasure and to play, 

And keep the devil's holiday; 

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling 

But beguiling 
Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies ; 

1 Beelzebub. 

N 17 



194 CRASHAW. [INTERREGNUM, 

Of all this hidden store 

Of blessings, and ten thousand more 

Doubtless he will unload 
Himself some other where ; 

And pour abroad 
His precious sweets, 
On the fair soul whom first he meets. 

O fair ! fortunate ! O rich ! dear ! 

O ! happy, and thrice happy she, 
Dear silver-breasted dove, 

Whoe'er she be, 
Whose early love, 
With winged vows, 

Makes haste to meet her morning spouse, 
And close with his immortal kisses ! 
Happy soul ! who never misses 

To improve that precious hour ; 
And every day 
Seize her sweet prey, 
All fresh and fragrant as he rises, 

Dropping with a balmy shower, 
A delicious dew of spices. 
Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful : she shall taste 

At once ten thousand paradises: 
She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 

The rich and rosal spring of those rare sweets, 
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets. 
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 
Of pure inebriating pleasures. 
Happy soul ! she shall discover 

What joy, what bliss, 

How many heavens at once it is 
To have a God become her lover. 

1 he following is a portion of his version of the twenty-third Psalm : « Though 
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." It is 
highly spirited and beautiful. 

Come now all ye terrors, sally, 
Muster forth into the valley 
Where triumphant darkness hovers 
With a sable wing, that covers 
Brooding Horror. Come, thou Death, 
Let the damps of thy dull breath 
Overshadow e'en the shade, 
And make darkness' self afraid : 
There my feet, e'en there shall find 
Way for a resolved mind. 
Still my Shepherd, still my God, 
Thou art with me, still thy rod 
And thy staff, whose influence 
Gives direction, gives defence. 



1649-1660.] FLETCHER. 195 



PHINEAS FLETCHER. 1584—1650. 

Phiiteas Fletcher was the brother of Giles Fletcher, and born about the 
year 1584. He took his degree at Cambridge, and after completing Ins 
studies for the ministry, was presented with the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, 
in 1621, which he held for twenty-nine years; and it is supposed that he 
died there in 1650. 

His chief poem is entitled "The Purple Island," which title, on being first 
heard, would suggest ideas totally different from what is its real subject. 
The truth is, it is a sort of anatomical poem, the " Purple Island" being no- 
thing less than the human body, the veins and arteiies of which are filled 
with the purple fluid coursing up and down; so that the first part of the 
poem, which is anatomically descriptive, is not a little dry and uninteresting. 
But after describing the body, he proceeds to personify the passions and intel- 
lectual faculties. " Here," says Headley, " fatigued attention is not merely 
relieved, but fascinated and enraptured ; there is a boldness of outline, a ma- 
jesty of manner, a brilliancy of coloring, and an air of life, that we look for in 
vain in modern productions, and that rival, if not surpass, what we meet with 
of the kind even in Spenser, from whom our author caught his inspiration." 
Tins is rather extravagant, and yet a few passages can be selected from Phi- 
neas Fletcher, that, for beauty, are scarcely exceeded by any poetry in the 
language. 

THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE. 1 

Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state, 

When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns! 

His cottage low, and safely humble gate 

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns : 

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep ; 
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread 
Draw out their silken lives ; nor silken pride : 
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, 
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed : 

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; 

Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite : 
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 

Instead of music and base flattering tongues, 
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise; 
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes : 

In country plays is all the strife he uses, 

Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses ; 
And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses. 

l These beautiful lines seem to have suggested the plan of that most exquisite little piece called 
The Hamlet by Thomas "Warton, which contains a selection of beautiful rural images, such as perhaps 
no other poem of equal length in our language presents us with. See it in the selections from 
Warton. 



196 FLETCHER. [INTERREGNUM, 

His certain life, that never can deceive him, 

Is full of thousand sweets and rich content : 

The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him 

With coolest shades, till noontide's rage is spent : 

His life is neither tost in boisterous seas 

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease : 
Pleased and full bless'd he lives, when he his God can please 

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, 
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place : 
His little son into his bosom creeps, 
The lively picture of his father's face : 

Never his humble house or state torment him ; 

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him ; 
And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him 

ENVY. 1 

Envy the next, Envy with squinted eyes ; 

Sick of a strange disease, his neighbor's health ; 
Best lives he then, when any better dies ; 
Is never poor, but in another's wealth : 

On best men's harms and griefs he feeds his fill ; 
Else his own maw doth eat with spiteful will : 
111 must the temper be, where diet is so ill. 

Each eye through divers optics slyly leers, 

Which both his sight and object's self belie ; 
So greatest virtue as a moat appears, 

And molehill faults to mountains multiply. 

When needs he must, yet faintly, then he praises ; 
Somewhat the deed, much more the means he raises . 
So marreth what he makes, and praising, most dispraises. 

DECAY OF HUMAN GREATNESS 

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, 
And here long seeks what here is never found ! 

For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, 
With many forfeits and conditions bound > 

Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due ; 

Though now but writ, and seal'd, and given anew, 

Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. 

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, 
At every loss against Heaven's face repining? 

Do but behold Where glorious cities stood, 
With gilded tops and silver turrets shining ; 

There now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, 

And loving pelican in safety breeds : 

There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads. 2 

Where is th' Assyrian lion's golden hide, 

That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw? 

1 "In his description of Envy, Fletcher is superior to Spenser." — Retrospectwt Reviett ii. 343. 
t Places. 



1619-1660." HABINGTON. 197 

Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride 

The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw ? 
Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, 
Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, 
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared. 

Hardly the place of such antiquity, 

Or note of these great monarchies we find: 
Only a fading verbal memory, 

And empty name in writ is left behind : 
But when this second life and glory fades, 
And sinks at length in time"s obscurer shades, 
A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. 

That monstrous beast, which, nursed in Tiber's fen, 

Did all the world with hideous shape affray; 
That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, 

And trod down all the rest to dust and clay : 
His battering horns, pull'd out by civil hands, 
And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands ; 
Baek'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands. 

And that black vulture, 1 which, with deathful wing, 
O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight 

Frighted the Muses from their native spring, 
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : 

Who then shall hope for happiness beneath ? 

Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, 

And life itselfs as flit as is the air we breathe. 



WILLIAM HABINGTON. 1605—1654. 

William Habiugtost was born at the country seat of his ancestors in 
Worcestershire, called Hindlip, in 1605, the year of the famed gunpowder 
plot, the discovery of which is said to have come from his mother. They 
were a wealthy family, and were Papists. William was educated in the 
Jesuits' College in St. Omers, and afterwards at Paris, in the hope that he 
might enter into that society. But he preferred a wiser and happier course 
of life, and returning to his own country, married Lucy, daughter of William 
Herbert. In 1635 he published a volume of poems entitled " Castara," under 
which name he celebrates his wife, a kind of title fashionable in that day. 
He died when he had just completed his fiftieth year, and was buried in the 
family vault at Hindlip. 

But little is known of Habington's history. He appears to have been dis- 
tinguished for connubial felicity, for a love of retirement and study, and for 
the dignity and moral beauty of his sentiments. " His poems possess much 
elegance, much poetical fancy, and are almost everywhere tmged with a deep 
moral cast, which ought to have made their fame more permanent." 2 



I Tht Mohammedan Empire. 

i Se°. "Censura Literaria," viii. 227 and 387; and "Retrospective Review," xii. 274; also, "Hal- 
iui' > Literature," &c, ii. 162. 

17* 



198 HABINGTON. [INTERREGNUM, 

TO CASTARA, 

In praise of Content, and the calm Happiness of the Country at Hindlip. 

Do not their profane orgies hear 
Who but to wealth no altars rear : 
The soul's oft poison'd through the ear. 

Castara, rather seek to dwell 
In th' silence of a private cell : 
Rich discontent's a glorious Hell. 

Yet Hindlip doth not want extent 
Of room (though not magnificent) 
To give free welcome to content. 

There shalt thou see the early Spring, 
That wealthy stock of Nature bring, 
Of which the Sybils' books did sing. 

From fruitless palms shall honey flow, 
And barren Winter harvest show, 
While lilies in his bosom grow. 

No north -wind shall the corn infest, 

But the soft spirit of the east, 

Our scent with perfumed banquets feast. 

A Satyr here and there shall trip, 
In hope to purchase leave to sip 
Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip. 

The Nymphs with quivers shall adorn 
Their active sides, and rouse the morn 
With the shrill music of their horn. 

Waken' d with which, and viewing thee, 
Fair Daphne, her fair self shall free 
From the chaste prison of a tree; 

And with Narcissus (to thy face 
Who humbly will ascribe all grace) 
Shall once again pursue the chase. 

So they whose wisdom did discuss 
Of these as fictions, shall in us 
Find they were more than fabulous. 

THE VANITY OF AVARICE. 

Hark ! how the traitor wind doth court 

The sailors to the main ; 
To make their avarice his sport : 

A tempest checks the fond disdain; 
They bear a safe though humble port 

We"ll sit, my love, upon the shore, 

And while proud billows rise 
To war against the sky, speak o'er 

Our love's so sacred mysteries ; 
And charm the sea to th' calm it had before. 



1649-1660.] hall. 199 

Where's now my pride t' exvsnd my fame 

Wherever statues are 1 
And purchase glory to my name 

In the smooth court or rugged war 1 
My love hath laid the devil, I am tame. 

I'd rather, like the violet, grow 

Unmark'd in th' shaded vale, 
Than on the hill those terrors know 

Are breathed forth by an angry gale ; 
There is more pomp above, more sweet below. 
****** 
Castara, what is there above 

The treasures we possess 1 
We two are all and one, we move * 

Like stars in th' orb of happiness. 
All blessings are epitomized in love. 



JOSEPH HALL. 1574—1656. 



Few names in our language have united in a greater degree the character 
of an instructive prose writer and a vigorous poet, than Joseph Hall. He was 
born at Briston Park, in Leicestershire, in 1574, and after taking his degree at 
Cambridge, he rose through various 1 church preferments to be Bishop of 
Exeter, and subsequently, in 1641, to be Bishop of Norwich. In the same 
year he joined with the twelve prelates in the protestation of all laws made* 
during their forced absence from Parliament. In consequence of this, he, 
with the rest, was sent to the Tower, and was released only on giving £5000 
bail. Two years after, he was among the number marked out for sequestra- 
tion. After suffering extreme hardships, he was allowed to retire on a small 
pittance, to Higham, near Norwich, where he continued, in comparative ob- 
scurity, but with indefatigable zeal and intrepidity, to exercise the duties of a 
pastor, till he closed his days, in the year 1656, at the venerable age of 
eighty-two. 

As a poet, Bishop Hall is known by his « Bookes of byting Satyres." These 
were published at the early age of twenty-three. They are marked, says 
Warton, 1 with a classical precision to which English poetry had yet rarely 
attained. They are replete with animation of style and sentiment. The 
characters are delineated in strong and lively coloring, and their discrimina- 
tions are touched with the masterly traces of genuine humor. His chief fault 
is obscurity, arising from a remote phraseology, constrained combinations, un 
familiar allusions, and abruptness of expression. But it must be borne in 
mind that he was the first English satirist. Pope, on presenting Mr. West 
with a copy of his poetical works, observed that he esteemed them the best 
poetry and the truest satire in the language. 

THE ANXIOUS CLIENT AND RAPACIOUS LAWYER. 

The crouching client, with low-bended knee, 
And many worships, and fair flattery, 



l A masterly analysis of these satires may be found in Wagon's "History of English Poetry." 
vol. iv., sections 62, 63, and 64. 



200 HALL. [INTERREGNUM, 

Tells on his tale as smoothly as him list ; 
But still the lawyer's eye squints on his fist : 
If that seem lined with a larger fee, 
" Doubt not the suit, the law is plain for thee." 
Tho 1 must he buy his vainer hopes with price. 
Disclout his crowns, 2 and thank him for advice. 



THE DOMESTIC TUTOR. 

A gentle squire would gladly entertain 

Into his house some trencher-chap elain ; 3 

Some willing man that might instruct his sons, 

And that would stand to good conditions. 4 

First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed, 

While his young master lieth o'er his head. 5 

Second, that he do, on no default, 

Ever presume to sit above the salt. 6 

Third, that he never change his trencher twice. 

Fourth, that he use all common courtesies 5 

Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait. 

Last, that he never his young master beat ; 

But he must as) his mother to define 

How many jerks 7 she would his back should line. 

All these observed, he could contented be 

To give five marks and winter livery. 

THE RUSTIC WISHING TO TURN SOLDIER. 

The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see 
All scarf'd with pied colors to the knee, 
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate ; 
And now he 'gins to loathe his former state : 
Now doth he inly scorn his Kendal-green, 8 
And his patch'd cockers 9 now despised been; 
Nor list he now go whistling to the car, 
But sells his team, and settleth to the war. 
Oh war ! to them that never tried thee, sweet : 
When 10 his dead mate falls grovelling at his feet; 
And angry bullets whistle at his ear, 
And his dim eyes see nought but dread and drear. 

1 Yet even. 2 pull them out of his purse. 

* Or, a table-chaplain. In the same sense we have "trencher-knight" in " Love's Labor Lost." 
V,e still too often see, as did Hall, the depressed state of modest, but true genius; we still see "the 
learned pate duck to the golden fool;" we still see "pastors and teachers" court and natter men 
who have little else than their money to recommend them. 

4 Pronounced as in four syllables, con-di-ti-ons. 

5 This indulgence allowed to the pupil is the reverse of a more ancient rule at Oxford, by which the 
scholars are ordered "to sleep respectively under the beds of the Fellows, in a truckle bed, (Trookyll 
Uddys, vulgariter nuncupati,) or small bed shifted about upon wheels." 

6 In Hall's day the table was divided into the upper and lower messes, by a huge salt-cellar, and 
the rank and consequence of the visitors were marked by the situation of their seats above or below 
the salt-cellar. 7 Lashes. 

S A kind of forester's green cloth, so called from Kendal, Westmoreland county, which was famout 
tor its manufacture 9 " A kind of rustic high shoes or half boots. 

iu Tnat is, to them who have never seen the time when, &c. 



1649-1660.] hall. 201 

THE FASHIONABLE BUT FAMISHED BEAU. 

Seest thou how gayly my young master goes, 

Vaunting himself upon his rising toes ; 

And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side ; 

And picks his glutted teeth since late noontide? 

'Tis Rumo: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day? 

In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humfray. 1 

Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say 

He touch'd no meat of all this livelong day. 

For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, 

His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness ; 

But could he have (as I did it mistake) 

So little in his purse, so much upon his back ? 

So nothing in his maw ? yet seemeth by his belt, 

That his gaunt bulk not too much stuffing felt. 

Seest thou how side 2 it hangs beneath his hip? 

Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. 

Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, 

All trapped in the new-found bravery. 

His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, 

One lock amazon-like dishevelled, 

As if he meant to wear a native cord, 

If chance his fates should him that bane afford. 

All British bare upon the bristled skin, 

Close notched is his beard both lip and chin ; 

His linen collar labyrinthian set, 

Whose thousand double turnings never met: 

His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, 

As if he meant to fly with linen wings. 

But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, 

What monster meets mine eyes in human show ? 

So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, 

Did never sober nature sure conjoin. 

Lik'st a straw scarecrow in the new-sown field, 

Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield. 

Or if that semblance suit not every deal, 

Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. 

As a prose writer, Hall was known in his day as a most able champior, in 
controversial theology, being one of the antagonists of Milton, and writing w th 
great learning, as well as with a most excellent spirit, in favor of the e <a- 
blished church. But his numerous tracts on this subject are now but lhtle 
read. Not so, however, with his " Contemplations on the principal Passages 
of the Holy Story," and his " Occasional Meditations." These are replete 
with fine thoughts, excellent morality, and sterling piety. He has been styled 
the Christian Seneca, from his sententious manner of writing, and from the 
peculiar resemblance of his "Meditations" to " Seneca's Morals." 4 

I A proverbial phrase for going without a dinner, arising from the circumstance of St. Paul's, where 
Duke Humphrey's tomb was supposed to stand, being the common resort of loungers who had not 
dined. 2 Long or low. 

3 "Poetry was the occupation merely of his youth, the vigor and decline of his days being em- 
ployed in the composition of professional works, calculated, by their piety, eloquence, and originality. 
to promote, in the most powerful manner, the best interests of morality and religion."— Drake. 



202 HALL. [interregnum, 

UPON OCCASION OF A RED-BREAST COMING INTO HIS CHAMBER. 

Pretty bird, how cheerfully dost thou sit and sing, and yet 
knowest not where thou art, nor where thou shalt make thy next 
meal ; and at night must shrowd thyself in a bush for lodging ! 
What a shame is it for me, that see before me so liberal provisions 
of my God, and find myself sit warm under my own roof, yet am 
ready to droop under a distrustful and unthankful dulness. Had 
I so little certainty of my harbor and purveyance, how heartless 
should I be, how careful ; how little list should I have to make 
music to thee or myself. Surely thou comest not hither without 
a Providence. God sent thee not so much to delight, as to shame 
me, but all in a conviction of my sullen unbelief, who, under 
more apparent means, am less cheerful and confident; reason and 
faith have not done so much in me, as in thee mere instinct of 
nature ; want of foresight makes thee more merry, if not more 
happy here, than the foresight of better things maketh me. 

O God, thy providence is not impaired by those powers thou 
hast given me above these brute things ; let not my greater 
helps hinder me from a holy security, and comfortable reliance 
on thee. 

UPON HEARING MUSIC BY NIGHT. 

How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season ! In 
the day-time it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. 
All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness ; thus 
it is with the glad tidings of salvation : the gospel never sounds 
so sweet as in the night of preservation, or of our own private 
affliction: it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition 
to receive it. O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, 
make my prosperity conscionable, and my crosses cheerful. 

UPON THE SIGHT OF A GREAT LIBRARY. 

What a world of wit is here packed up together ! I know not 
whether this sight doth more dismay or comfort me ; it dismays 
me to think that here is so much that I cannot know ; it comforts 
me to think that this variety yields so good helps to know what I 
should. There is no truer word than that of Solomon — there is 
no end of making many books ; this sight verifies it; there is no 
end ; indeed, it were pity there should : God hath given to man 
a busy soul ; the agitation whereof cannot but, through time and 
experience, work out many hidden truths : to suppress these 
would be no other than injurious to mankind ; whose minds, like 
unto so many candles, should be kindled by each other: the 
thoughts of our deliberation are most accurate ; these we vent into 
our papc "s. What a happiness is it, that, without all offence of 



1649-1660.] hall. 203 

necromancy, I may here call up any of the ancient worthies of 
learning, whether human or divine, and confer with them of aD 
my doubts ! that I can at pleasure summon whole synods of re 
verend fathers, and acute doctors from aJ the coasts of the earth, 
to give their well-studied judgments in all points of question which 
I propose ! Neither can I cast my eye casually upon any of these 
silent masters, but I must learn somewhat : it is a wantonness to 
complain of choice. 

THE HAPPY MAN IS HE 

That hath learned to read himself more than all books ; and 
hath so taken out this lesson that he can never forget it ; that 
knows the world, and cares not for it ; that after many traverses 
of thoughts, is grown to know what he may trust to, and stands 
now equally armed for all events ; that hath got the mastery at 
home, so as he can cross his will without a mutiny, and so please 
it that he makes it not a wanton ; that in earthly things wishes 
no more than nature ; in spiritual, is ever graciously ambitious ; 
that for his condition, stands on his own feet, not needing to lean 
upon the great ; and so can frame his thoughts to his estate, that 
when he hath least, he cannot want, because he is as free from 
desire as superfluity ; that he hath seasonably broken the head- 
strong restiness of prosperity, and can now manage it at pleasure : 
upon whom all smaller crosses light as hailstones upon a roof; 
and for the greater calamities, he can take them as tributes of life, 
and tokens of love ; and if his ship be tossed, yet is he sure his 
anchor is fast. If all the world were his, he could be no other 
than he is, no whit gladder of himself, no whit higher in his car- 
riage, because he knows contentment is not in the things he hath, 
but in the mind that values them. 1 The powers of his resolution 
can either multiply, or subtract at pleasure. He can make his 
cottage a manor or a palace when he lists ; and his homeclose a 
large dominion ; his stained cloth, arras ; his earth, plate ; and 
can see state in the attendance of one servant : as one that hath 



1 It's no in titles nor in rank, 
It's no in wealth, like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest; 
It's no in making muckle maxr, 
It's no in books, it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest: 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest: 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 

That make* us right or wrang.— Bum «, 



204 HALL. [INTERREGNUM, 

learned a man's greatness or baseness is in himself; and in this 
he may even contest with the proud, that he thinks his own the 
best. Or if he must be outwardly great, he can but turn the other 
end of the glass, and make his stately manor a low and strait 
cottage ; and in all his costly furniture he can see not richness but 
use. He can see dross in the best metal, and earth through the 
best clothes : and in all his troop he can see himself his own ser- 
vant. He lives quietly at home, out of the noise of the world, and 
loves to enjoy himself always, and sometimes his friend, and hath 
as full scope to his thoughts as to his eyes. He walks ever even 
in the midway betwixt hopes and fears, resolved to fear nothing 
but God, to hope for nothing but that which he must have. His 
strife is ever to redeem and not to spend time. It is his trade to 
do good, and to think of it as his recreation. He hath hands 
enough for himself and others, which are ever stretched forth for 
beneficence, not for need. He walks cheerfully the way that God 
hath chalked, and never wishes it more wide, or more smooth. 
Those very temptations whereby he is foiled, strengthen him ; he 
comes forth crowned, and triumphing out of the spiritual battles, 
and those scars that he hath, make him beautiful. His soul is 
every day dilated to receive that God in whom he is, and hath 
attained to love himself for God, and God for his own sake. His 
eyes stick so fast in heaven, that no earthly object can remove 
them ; yea, his whole self is there before his time ; and sees 
Stephen, and hears with Paul, and enjoys with Lazarus, the 
glory that he shall have ; and takes possession beforehand of his 
room amongst the saints ; and these heavenly contentments have 
so taken him up, that now he looks down displeasedly upon the 
earth, as the regions of his sorrow and banishment ; yet joying 
more in hope than troubled with the sense of evil, he holds it no 
great matter to live, and greatest business to die : and is so well 
acquainted with his last guest, that he fears no unkindness from 
him ; neither makes he any other of dying, than of walking home 
when he is abroad, or of going to bed when he is weary of the 
day. He is well provided for both worlds, and is sure of peace 
here, of glory hereafter ; and therefore hath a light heart and a 
cheerful face. All his fellow creatures rejoice to serve him ; his 
betters, the angels, love to observe him ; God himself takes plea- 
sure to converse with him ; and hath sainted him before his death, 
and in his death crowned him. 

THE PLEASURE OF STUDY AND CONTEMPLATION. 

I can wonder at nothing more than how a man can be idle ; but 
ol ail others, a scholar ; in so many improvements of reason, in 
such sweetness of knowledge, in such variety of studies, in such 
importunity of thoughts : other artisans do but practise, we still 



1649-1660.] lovelacb. 205 

learn ; others run still in the same gyre to weariness, to satiety , 
our choice is infinite ; other labors require recreation ; our very 
labor recreates our sports ; we can never want either somewhat 
to do, or somewhat that we would do. How numberless are the 
volumes which men have written of arts, of tongues ! How end- 
less is that volume which God hath written of the world ! wherein 
every creature is a letter ; every day a new page. Who can be 
weary of either of these ? To find wit in poetry ; in philosophy, 
profoundness ; in mathematics, acuteness ; in history, wonder of 
events ; in oratory, sweet eloquence ; in divinity, supernatural 
light and holy devotion ; as so many rich metals in their proper 
mines ; whom would it not ravish with delight? After all these, 
let us but open our eyes, we cannot look beside a lesson, in this 
universal book of our Maker, worth our study, worth taking 
out. What creature hath not his miracle ? what event doth not 
challenge his observation ? How many busy tongues chase away 
good hours in pleasant chat, and complain of the haste of night ! 
What ingenious mind can be sooner weary of talking with learned 
authors, the most harmless and sweetest companions ? Let the 
world contemn us ; while we have these delights we cannot envy 
them ; we cannot wish ourselves other than we are. Besides, the 
way to all other contentments is troublesome ; the only recom- 
pense is in the end. But very search of knowledge is delight- 
some. Study itself is our life ; from which we would not be 
barred for a world. How much sweeter then is the fruit of study, 
the conscience of knowledge ? In comparison whereof the soul 
that hath once tasted it, easily contemns all human comforts. 1 



RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618—1658. 

Richard Lovelace, son of Sir William Lovelace, of "Woolwich, in Kent, 
was born in 1618, and educated at Oxford. Wood says of him, that "he was 
accounted the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld: a per- 
son also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment." On leaving the 
university he obtained a commission in the army, being a very firm loyalist. 
After the ruin of the king's cause, and of his own fortune, he commanded i 
regiment in the French service, and was wounded at Dunkirk. The lady to 
whom he was engaged, and to whom he addressed much of his poetry, sup- 
posing him dead of his wounds, married another. He returned to England 
in 1648, and was imprisoned, but was set at liberty on the king's death. After 
this, he suffered extreme poverty, having spent all his fortune in the service 

1 How charming is divine philosophy ! 
Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose; 
But musical as is Apollo's lute, 
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, 
Where no crude surfeit reigns.— Milton's Comvu. 
IS 



206 LOVELACE. [CHARLES IT. 

of his sovereign, and lingered out a wretched life till 1658, when he died of 
consumption, induced by misery and want 

TO ALTHEA. 

Written in Prison. 
When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates : 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates : 
When I he tangled in her hair, 

And fetter'd to her eye ; 
The gods that wanton in the air, 

Know no such liberty. 

• • • • 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free ; 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

THE GRASSHOPPER. 

To my noble friend, Mr. Charles Cotton. 
Oh thou that swing'st upon the waving hair 

Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
Drunk every night with a delicious tear 

Dropp'd thee from heaven, where now thou'rt rear'dj 

The joys of earth and air are thine entire, 

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly 5 

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 

Up with the day ; the sun thou welcom'st then ; 

Sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams, 
And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 

Thyself, and melancholy streams. 

But ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd ; 

Ceres and Bacchus bid good night; 
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topp'd, 

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 

Poor verdant fool ! and now green ice, thy joys 

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, 
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poise 

Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. 

Thou best of men and friends ! we will create 

A genuine summer in each other's breast; 
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate 

Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. 

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally 
As vestal flames, the north-wind, he 



1660-1685.] fuller. 207 

Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve, and fly 
This Etna in epitome. 

Thus richer than untempted kings are we, 

That asking nothirg, nothing need; 
Though lord of all what seas embrace; yet he 

That wants himself, is poor indeed. 



THOMAS FULLER. 1608—1661. 



A conspicuous place in the prose literature of our language is due to the 
historian and divine, Thomas Fuller. He was the son of a clergyman of the 
same name, and was born in 1608 at Aldwinkle in Northamptonshire, tho 
native place of Dryden. At the early age of twelve, he was sent to Queen's 
College, Cambridge, where he distinguished himself for his attainments, and 
on entering life as a preacher in that city, he acquired the greatest popularity. 
He afterwards passed through a rapid succession of promotions, until he ac- 
quired (1641) the lectureship of the Savoy Church in London. To show his 
fidelity to the royal cause, he procured, in 1643, a nomination as chaplain to 
the royal army. When the heat of the war was passed he returned to Lon- 
don, and became lecturer at St. Bride's church. Subsequently he occupied 
other situations in the church of England, and at the Restoration (1660) he 
was chosen chaplain extraordinary to the king. The next year he was pre- 
maturely cut off by fever at the age of fifty-three. 

The works of Fuller are very numerous : the chief of which are the follow- 
ing: 1. "History of the Worthies of England," one of the earliest biographical 
works in the language ; a strange mixture of topography, biography, and 
popular antiquities. 2. " The Holy and Profane State," the former proposing 
examples for imitation ; the latter their opposites, for our abhorrence. Each 
contains characters in every department of life, as, " the father," « husband," 
" soldier," " divine," &c. ; lives of eminent persons, as illustrative of these 
characters ; and general essays. 3. " The History of the Holy War," and 
K The Church History of Britain." There are specimens of historical painting 
in these works that have perhaps never been excelled. 4. " Good Thoughts 
in Bad Times." 5. « A Pisgah-sight of Palestine and the Confines thereof; 
with the History of the Old and New Testament acted thereon." Besides 
these he published a large number of tracts and sermons on various subjects. 

Fuller was indeed an extraordinary man. " If ever there was an amusing 
writer in this world, Thomas Fuller was one. There was in him a combi- 
nation of those qualities which minister to our entertainment, such as few 
have ever possessed in an equal degree. He was, first of all, a man of multi- 
farious reading ; of great and digested knowledge, which an extraordinary 
retentiveness of memory preserved ever ready for use, and considerable ac 
curacy of judgment enabled him successfully to apply. So well does he vary 
his treasures of memory and observation, so judiciously does he interweave 
his anecdotes, quotations, and remarks, that it is impossible to conceive a 
more delightful checker-work of acute thought and apposite illustration, of 
original and extracted sentiment, than is presented in his works." * 



Read— an article on Fuller in the " Retrospective Review," li. 5tt. 



208 FULLER. [CHAKLES II. 

MISCELLANEOUS APHORISMS. 

Know, next to religion, there is nothing accomplished a man 
more than learning. Learning in a lord is as a diamond in gold. 

He must rise early, yea, not at all go to bed, who will have 
every one's good word. 

He needs strong arms who is to swim against the stream. 

It is hard for one of base parentage to personate a king without 
overacting his part. 

The pope knows he can catch no fish if the waters are clear. 

The cardinals' eyes in the court of Rome were old and dim. ; 
and therefore the glass, wherein they see any thing, must be well 
silvered. 

Many wish that the tree may be felled, who hope to gather 
chips by the fall. 

The Holy Ghost came down, not in the shape of a vulture, but 
in the form of a dove. 

Gravity is the ballast of the soul. 

Learning hath gained most by those books by which the printers 
have lost. 

He shall be immortal who liveth till he be stoned by one with- 
out fault. 

It is the worst clandestine marriage when God is not invited 
to it. 

Deceive not thyself by over-expecting happiness in the married 
state. Look not therein for contentment greater than God will 
give, or a creature in this world can receive, namely, to be free 
from all inconveniences. Marriage is not like the hill Olympus, 
wholly clear, without clouds. Remember the nightingales, which 
sing only some months in the spring, but commonly are silent 
when they have hatched their eggs, as if their mirth were turned 
into care for their young ones. 

THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER. 1 

There is scarce any profession in the commonwealth more ne- 
cessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons whereof I 
conceive to be these : — First, young scholars make this calling 
their refuge ; yea, perchance, before they have taken any degree 
in the university, commence schoolmasters in the country, as if 
nothing else were required to set up this profession but only a rod 
and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able, use it only as a 

1 The remarks of Fuller on this subject are most admirable. How little discrimination parents 
often evince in placing their children at school; and how many are there who " set up school," as 
the phrase is, without any suitable preparation or qualifications for the responsible duty. It is hu- 
miliating to reflect how often that profession, for which as much training and study are requisite as 
tot any other, has been assumed merely as the last resort. But a better day is at hand. 



1660-1685.] fuller. 209 

passage to better preferment, to patch the rents in their present 
fortune, till they can provide a new one, and betake themselves to 
some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they are disheartened from 
doing their best with the miserable reward which in some places 
they receive, being masters to their children and slaves to their 
parents. Fourthly, being grown rich they grow negligent, and 
scorn to touch the school but by the proxy of the usher. But see 
how well our schoolmaster behaves himself. 

His genius inclines him with delight to his profession. God, 
of his goodness, hath fitted several men for several callings, that 
the necessity of church and state, in all conditions, may be pro- 
vided for. And thus God mouldeth some for a schoolmaster's life, 
undertaking it with desire and delight, and discharging it with 
dexterity and happy success. 

He studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they their 
books ; and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And 
though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend 
to all particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly make 
a grammar of boys' natures. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching ; not lead- 
ing them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his pre- 
cepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness of 
his own soul, that his scholars may go along with him. 

He is moderate in inflicting deserved correction. Many a 
schoolmaster better answereth the name paidotrihes 1 than paid- 
agogos, 2 rather tearing his scholars' flesh with whipping than 
giving them good education. No wonder if his scholars hate the 
muses, being presented unto them in the shapes of fiends and 
furies. 

Such an Orbilius mars more scholars than he makes. Their 
tyranny hath caused many tongues to stammer which spake plain 
by nature, and whose stuttering at first was nothing else but fears 
quavering on their speech at their master's presence ; and whose 
mauling them about their heads hath dulled those who in quick- 
ness exceeded their master. 

To conclude, let this, amongst other motives, make schoolmos- 
ters careful in their place — that the eminences of their scholars 
have commended the memories of their schoolmasters to poste- 
rity. 3 



1 Boy-bea,ter. 

2 He means " boy-teaeher," but the paidagogos (7rai£aycuyos) "pedagogue" of the Greeks, was tl.e 
servant who conducted the children from their homes to the schools, and not the instructor. 

S How beautifully the historian Gibbon expresses the obligations due from a scholar to a faithful 
and competent teacher : " The expression of gratitude is a virtv.e and a pleasure ; a liberal mind will 
delight to cherish and celebrate the memory of its parents, and the teachers of science are thb 
parents of the mind." Memoirs, ch. iii. 

o is* 



210 FULLER. [CHARLES II. 



THE GOOD WIFE. 

She commandetli her husband in any equal matter, by constant 
obeying him. 

She never crosseth her husband in the spring-tide of his anger, 
but stays till it be ebbing-water. Surely men, contrary to iron, 
are worst to be wrought upon when they are hot. 

Her clothes are rather comely than costly, and she makes plain 
cloth to be velvet by her handsome wearing it. 

Her husband's secrets she will not divulge : especially she is 
careful to conceal his infirmities. 

In her husband's absence she is wife and deputy husband, 
which makes her double the files of her diligence. At his return 
he finds all things so well, that he wonders to see himself at home 
when he was abroad. 1 

Her children, though many in number, are none in noise, steer- 
ing them with a look whither she listeth. 

The heaviest work of her servants she maketh light, by orderly 
and seasonably enjoining it. 

In her husband's sickness she feels more grief than she shows- 

THE GOOD SEA-CAPTAIN. 

Conceive him now in a man-of-war, with his letters of marque, 
victualled, and appointed. 

The more power he hath, the more careful he is not to abuse 
it. Indeed a sea-captain is a king in the island of a ship, supreme 
judge, above all appeal, in causes civil and criminal, and is seldom 
brought to an account on land for injuries done to his own men 
at sea. 

He is careful in observing the Lord's day. He hath a watch 
in his heart, though no bells in a steeple to proclaim that day by 
ringing to prayers. 

He is as pious and thankful when a tempest is past, as devout 
when 'tis present ; not clamorous to receive mercies, and tongue- 
tied to return thanks. Escaping many dangers makes him not 
presumptuous to run into them. 

In taking a prize he most prizeth the men's lives whom he 
takes ; though some of them may chance to be negroes or savages. 

1 In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy there are twelve reasons in favor of marriage, of which tha 
first six are as follows :— 

1. Hast thou means ? Thou hast one to keep and increase it. 

2. Hast none ? Thou hast one to help to get it. 

3. Art in prosperity ? Thine happiness is doubled. 

•*. Art in adversity ? She'll comfort, assist, bear a part of thy burden, to make it more tolerable. 

5. Art at home ? She'll drive away melancholy. 

6. Art abroad ? She looks after thee going from home, wishes for thee in thine absence, and joy- 
fully welcomes thy return. , 



1660-1685.] fuller. 211 

'Tis the custom of some to cast them overboard, and there's an 
end of them: for the dumb fishes will tell no tales. But the 
murderer is not so soon drowned as the man. What, is a brother 
of false blood no kin ? a savage hath God to his father by crea- 
tion, though not the church to his mother, and God will revenge 
his innocent blood. But our captain counts the image of God, 
nevertheless his image cut in ebony as if done in ivory. 1 

In dividing the gains, he wrongs no one who took pains to get 
them : not shifting off his poor mariners with nothing. 

In time of peace he quietly returns home. 

His voyages are not only for profit, but some for honor and 
knowledge. 3 

He daily sees, and duly considers God's wonders in the deep. 

ON TRAVELLING. 

Travel not early before thy judgment be risen; lest thou observe 
est rather shows than substance. 

Get the language (in part), without which key thou shaft unlock 
little of moment. 

Know most of the rooms of thy native country before thou goest 
over the threshold thereof. 

Travel not beyond the Alps. Mr. Roger Ascham did thank 
God that he was but nine days in Italy, wherein he saw in one 
city (Venice) more liberty to sin than in London he ever heard 
of in nine years. 

Be wise in choosing objects, diligent in marking, careful in 
remembering of them. Yet herein men much follow their own 
humors. One asked a barber who never before had been at the 
court, what he saw there ? " O," said he, " the king was excel- 
lently well trimmed !" 

Labor to distil and unite into thyself the scattered perfections 
of several nations. Many weed foreign countries, bringing home 
Dutch drunkenness, Spanish pride, French wantonness, and Ita- 
lian atheism ; as for the good herbs, Dutch industry, Spanish loy- 
alty, French courtesy, and Italian frugality, these they leave 
behind them ; others bring home just nothing; and, because they 
singled not themselves from their countrymen, though some years 
beyond sea, were never out of England. 

1 " Is not this one of the earliest intercessions on behalf of the poor slaves ?"— Basil Montagu. No ; 
for a higher than all human authority proclaims, fifteen hundred years before, " All things whatso- 
ever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them;" which, if obeyed, would breaa 
every bond of oppression throughout the world. Light and darkness, virtue and vice, heavtn anu 
earth, present no greater contrast than the code of Christian ethics and the slave code. 

2 This is common to all professions : " I hold," says Lord Bacon, " that every man is a debtor to 
his profession, from the which, as men do of course seek to receive counterance and Drofit, so ought 
they of duty to endeavor themselves, by way of amends, to be a help and ornament thereunto." 



212 FULLER. [CHARLES II. 

OF MEMORY. 

It is the treasure-house of the mind, wherein the monuments 
thereof are kept and preserved. Plato makes it the mother of the 
Muses. Aristotle sets it in one degree further, making experience 
the mother of arts, memory the parent of experience. Philoso- 
phers place it in the rear of the head ; and it seems the mine of 
memory lies there, because there men naturally dig for it, scratch- 
ing it when they are at a loss. This again is two-fold ; one, the 
simple retention of things ; the other, a regaining them when 
forgotten. 

Artificial memory is rather a trick than an art, and more for the 
gain of the teacher than profit of the learners. Like the tossing 
of a pike, which is no part of the postures and motions thereof, 
and is rather for ostentation than use, to show the strength and 
nimbleness of the arm, and is often used by wandering soldiers, 
as an introduction to beg. Understand it of the artificial rules 
which at this day are delivered by memory mountebanks ; for 
sure an art thereof may be made, (wherein as yet the world is 
defective,) and that no more destructive to natural memory than 
spectacles are to eyes, which girls in Holland wear from twelve 
years of age. But till this be found out, let us observe these 
plain rules. 

First, soundly infix in thy mind what thou desirest to remember. 
What wonder is it if agitation of business jog that out of thy head 
which was there rather tacked than fastened ? It is best knock- 
ing in the nail over night, and clinching it the next morning. 

Overburden not thy memory to make so faithful a servant a 
slave. Remember, Atlas was weary. Have as much reason as a 
camel, to rise when thou hast thy full load. Memory, like a purse, 
if it be over full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it ; take 
heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greedi- 
ness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof. 

Marshal thy notions into a handsome method. One will carry 
twice more weight trussed and packed up in bundles, than when it 
lies untoward, flapping and hanging about his shoulders. Things 
orderly fardled up under heads are most portable. 

Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it be- 
twixt thy memory and thy note-books. He that with Bias carries 
all his learning about him in his head, will utterly be beggared 
and bankrupt, if a violent disease, a merciless thief, should rob and 
strip him. I know some have a common-place against common- 
place-books, and yet perchance will privately make use of what 
they publicly declaim against. A common-place-book contains 
many notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an 
army into the field on competent warning. 



1060-1685.] herrick. 213 



RORERT HERRICK. 1591—1662. 

One of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert 
Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of 
London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, 
and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, 
in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the 
Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 
1662. 

Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an 
able critic in the Retrospective Review l , in pronouncing him one of the best 
of English lyric poets. " He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards ; sing- 
ing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as 
the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. . . . His 
poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a 
July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the 
fair and sweet things of nature : it is redolent of roses and jessamine ; it is ag 
light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow 
into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty." 

TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early-rising sun 
Has not attain'd his noon : 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hastening day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along ! 

We have short time to stay, as you ; 

We have as short a spring, 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or any thing : 
We die, 
As your hours do ; and dry 

Away 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 

Speak grief in you, 

Who were but born 

Just as the modest mom 

Teem'd her refreshing dew ? 

Alas ! you have not known that shower 

That mars a flower; 

1 Vol. v. page 156. Head also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours." 



214 HERRICK. [CHARLES H. 

Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind; 
Nor are ye worn with years; 

Or warp'd, as we, 

"Who think it strange to see 

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 

To speak by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop, and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep ; 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or, that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet? 
Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
No, no ; this sorrow, shown 

By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read, 
"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast? 

Your date is not so past, 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good-night % 

'Tis pity nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 



HOW THE HEART S-EASE FIRST CAME. 

Frolic virgins once these were, 

Over-loving, living here ; 

Being here their ends denied, 

Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. 

Love, in pity of their tears, 

And their loss of blooming years, 

For their restless here-spent hours, 

Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers. 



1660-1685.] herkick. 2i: 

THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER. 

As Julia once a slumbering lay, 

It chanced a bee did fly that way, 

After a dew, or dew-like shower, 

To tipple freely in a flower ; 

For some rich flower he took the lip 

Of Julia, and began to sip : 

But when he felt he suck'd from thence 

Honey, and in the quintessence, 

He drank so much he scarce could stir ; 

So Julia took the pilferer : 

And thus surprised, as filchers use, 

He thus began himself t' excuse : 

Sweet lady-flower ! I never brought 

Hither the least one thieving thought ; 

But taking those rare lips of yours 

For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, 

I thought I might there take a taste, 

Where so much syrup ran at waste : 

Besides, know this, I never sting 

The flower that gives me nourishing ; 

But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay 

For honey that I bear away. 

This said, he laid his little scrip 

Of honey 'fore her ladyship ; 

And told her, as some tears did fall, 

Tnat, that he took, and that was all. 

At which she smiled ; and bade him go 

And take his bag; but thus much know 

When next he came a pilfering so, 

He should from her full lips derive 

Honey enough to fill his hive. 

THE NIGHT PIECE. TO JULIA. 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like sparks of fire, befriend thee ! 
No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee ! 
Let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number ! 
Then Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me : 

And, when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet 
My soul I'll pour into thee! 



210 PHILIPS. [CHAKLES II. 

THE PRIMROSE. 

Ask me why I send you here 

This sweet infanta of the year ? 

Ask me why I send to you 

This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew ? 

I will whisper to your ears, 

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. 

Ask me why this flower does show 
So yellow green, and sickly too ? 
Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break ? 
I will answer, these discover 
What fainting hopes are in a lover. 

UPON A CHILD THAT DIED. 

Here she lies, a pretty bud, 
Lately made of flesh and blood ; 
Who as soon fell fast asleep 
As her little eyes did peep. 
Give her strewings, but not stir 
The earth that lightly covers her ! 

EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. 

Virgins promised, when I died, 
That they would, each primrose-tide. 
Duly morn and evening come, 
And with flowers dress my tomb : 
Having promised, pay your debts, 
Maids, and here strew violets. 

UPON A MAID. 

Here she lies, in beds of spice, 
Fair as Eve in paradise ; 
For her beauty it was such, 
Poets could not praise too much. 
Virgins, come, and in a ring 
Her supremest requiem sing ; 
Then depart, but see ye tread 
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead. 



CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631—1664. 

Mrs. Catherine Philips was the daughter of John Fowler, a London 
Tierchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of 
Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, 
and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write 
after her marriage ; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a 
most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which 
had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed with- 
out her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con- 



660-1685.] philips. 217 

temporaries : Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of 
Friendship," and Cowley wrote an ode on her death. She died of the small 
pox, June 22, 1664, aged thirty-three. 

AGAINST PLEASURE. 

There's no such thing as pleasure here, 

: Tis all a perfect cheat, 
Which does but shine and disappear, 

Whose charm is but deceit; 
The empty bribe of yielding souls, 
Which first betrays, and then controls. 

'Tis true, it looks at distance fair, 

But if we do approach, 
The fruit of Sodom will impair, 

And perish at a touch ; 
It being than in fancy less, 
And we expect more than possess. 

For by our pleasures we are cloy'd, 

And so desire is done ; 
Or else, like rivers, they make wide 

The channels where they run : 
And either way true bliss destroys, 
Making us narrow, or our joys. 

We covet pleasure easily, 

But ne'er true bliss possess ; 
For many things must make it be, 

But one may make it less. 
Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 
'T would be consumed by fear to lose it. 

What art thou then, thou winged air, 

More weak and swift than fame ? 
Whose next successor is despair, 

And its attendant shame. 
The experienced prince then reason had, 
Who said of pleasure, " It is mad." 

TO MY ANTENOR. 1 

My dear Antenor, now give o'er, — 

For my sake talk of graves no more , 

Death is not in our power to gain, 

And is both wish'd and fear'd in vain. 

Let's be as angry as we will, 

Grief sooner may distract than kill, 

And the unhappy often prove 

Death is as coy a thing as love. 

Those whose own sword their death did give, 

Afraid were, or ashamed, to live ; 

1 This was the fictitious name under which she addressed her husband, whose circumstances were 
much reduced during the civil war. The above poem was written March 10, 1600, to cheer him witfl 
the hope that, as parliament had rescued him, Providence would do so too. 

19 



218 TAYLOR. ["CHARLES JT. 

And by an act so desperate, 

Did poorly run away from fate ; 

'Tis braver much t outride the storm, 

Endure its rage, and shun its harm ; 

Affliction nobly undergone, 

More greatness shows than having none, 

But yet the wheel, in turning round, 

At last may lift us from the ground, 

And when our fortune's most severe, 

The less we have the less we fear. 

And why should we that grief permit, 

Which cannot mend nor shorten it 1 

Let's wait for a succeeding good, 

Woes have their ebb as well as flood : 

And since the parliament have rescued you, 

Believe that Providence will do so too. 



JEREMY TAYLOR 1602—1607. ) 

Jeremy Taylor, who, for learning, eloquence, imagination, and piety, 
stands among the first of English divines, was the son of a barber in Cam- 
bridge. He was born about the year 1602, and at the age of thirteen entered 
the university of his native place. A short time after taking his degree, he 
was elected, by the interest of Archbishop Laud, fellow of All-Souls College 
Oxford. He became chaplain to Laud, who procured for him the rectory of 
Uppington in Rutlandshire, where he settled in 1640. In 1642, he was cre- 
ated D. D. at Oxford. In 1644, while accompanying the royal army as chap- 
lain, he was taken prisoner by the parliamentary forces, in the battle fought 
before the castle of Cardigan, in Wales. Being soon released, he resolved to 
continue in Wales, and. having established a school in the county of Caermar- 
then, he there waited calmly the issue of events. In his own felicitous style, 
he gives the following picturesque account of his retirement : " In the 
great storm which dashed the vessel of the church all in pieces, I had been 
cast on the coast of Wales, and, in a little boat, thought to have enjoyed that 
rest and quietness which in England, in a far greater, I could not hope for. 
Here I cast anchor, and thinking to ride safely, the storm followed me with 
so impetuous violence, that it broke a cable, and I lost my anchor: and, but 
that He that stilleth the raging of the sea, and the noise of his waves, and the 
madness of the people, had provided a plank for me, I had been lost to all 
the opportunities of content or study : but I know not whether I have been 
preserved more by the courtesies of my friends, or the gentleness and mercies 
of a noble enemy." l 

After continuing some years in this solitude, he lost his three sons in the 
short space of two or three months. This most afflicting calamity caused him 
to go to London, where he administered, though in circumstances of great 
danger, to a private congregation of loyalists. At the Restoration he was 
made bishop of Down and Connor, in Ireland, and subsequently was elected 
vice-chancellor of the University of Dublin, which office he retained to his 
death, 1667. 

The writings of Bishop Taylor, which are numerous, are all of a theologi- 

1 A most noble and just, tribute to the Republican cause. 



1660-16SO.] TAYLOR. 219 

cal character. His greatest work, perhaps, is his "Liberty of Prophesying/' 
By prophesying, he means preaching or expounding. The object of this is to 
show the unreasonableness of prescribing to other men's faith, and the ini- 
quity of persecuting for difference of opinion. It has been justly described 
as, " perhaps of all Taylor's writings, that which shows him farthest in ad- 
vance of the age in which he lived, and of the ecclesiastical system in which 
he had been reared; as the first distinct and avowed defence of toleration 
which had been ventured on in England, perhaps in Christendom." The most 
popular, however, of his works is his " Rule and Exercise of Holy Living 
and Dying," which contains numerous passages of singular beauty and truth. 
A writer in the Edinburgh Review remarks, that in one of Taylor's " prose 
folios, there is more fine fancy and original imagery — more brilliant concep- 
tions and glowing expressions — more new figures and new application of old 
figures, — more, in short, of the body and soul of poetry, than in all the odes 
and epics that have since been produced in Europe." This is rather extrava- 
gant ; but the encomium passed upon his writings by Dr. Rust, in his funeral 
sermon, is most richly deserved : "They will," says he, "be famous to all suc- 
ceeding generations for their greatness of wit, and profoundness of judgment, 
and richness of fancy, and clearness of expression, and copiousness of inven- 
tion, and general usefulness to all the purposes of a Christian." l 

i - 

ON PRAYER. 

Prayer is an action of likeness to the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of 
gentleness and dove-like simplicity ; an imitation of the holy 
Jesus, whose spirit is meek, up to the greatness of the biggest 
example ; and a conformity to God, whose anger is always just, 
and marches slowly, and is without transportation, and often hin- 
dered, and never hasty, and is full of mercy. Prayer is the peace 
of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recol- 
lection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares, and the calm 
of our tempest ; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled 
thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness ; 
and he that prays to God with an angry, that is, with a troubled 
and discomposed spirit, is like him that retires into a battle to 
rceditate, and sets up his closet in the out-quarters of an army, 
and chooses a frontier garrison to be wise in. Anger is a perfect 
alienation of the mind from prayer, and therefore is contrary to 
that attention, which presents our prayers in a right line to God. 
For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and soar- 
ing upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and 
climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with 
the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregu- 
lar and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tem- 
pest than it could recover by the libraiion and frequent weighing 
of his wings ; till the little creature was forced to sit down and 



1 The best edition of his works is that by Bishop Heber, " with a Life of the Author, and a eritioaJ 
Examination of his Works." 



220 TAYLOR. [CHARLES II. 

pant, and stay till the storm was over ; and then it made a pros- 
perous flight, and did rise and sing as if it had iearned music and 
motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air 
about his ministries here below : so is the prayer of a good man : 
when his affairs have required business, and his business was 
matter of discipline, and his discipline was to pass upon a sinning 
person, or had a design of charity, his duty met with the infirmi- 
ties of a man, and anger was its instrument, and the instrument 
became stronger than the prime agent, and raised a tempest, and 
overruled the man ; and then his prayer was broken, and his 
thoughts were troubled, and his words went up towards a cloud, 
and his thoughts pulled them back again, and made them without 
intention, and the good man sighs for his infirmity, but must be 
content to lose the prayer, and he must recover it when his anger 
is removed, and his spirit is becalmed, made even as the brow of 
Jesus, and smooth like the heart of God ; and then it ascends to 
heaven upon the wings of the holy dove, and dwells with God, 
till it returns, like the useful bee, loaden with a blessing and the 
dew of heaven. 

ON TOLERATION. 

Any zeal is proper for religion but the zeal of the sword and 
the zeal of anger : this is the bitterness of zeal, and it is a certain 
temptation to every man against his duty ; for if the sword turns 
preacher, and dictates propositions by empire instead of argu- 
ments, and engraves them in men's hearts with a poniard, that it 
shall be death to believe what I innocently and ignorantly am 
persuaded of, it must needs be unsafe to try the spirits, to try all 
things, to make inquiry ; and, yet, without this liberty, no man 
can justify himself before God or man, nor confidently say that 
his religion is best. This is inordination of zeal ; for Christ, by 
reproving St. Peter drawing his sword even in the cause of Christ, 
for his sacred and yet injured person, teaches us not to use the 
sword, though in the cause of God, or for God himself. 

When Abraham sat at his tent door, according to his custom, 
waiting to entertain strangers, he espied an old man, stooping and 
leaning on his staff, weary with age and travail, coming towards 
him, who was a hundred years of age. He received him kindly, 
washed his feet, provided supper, caused him to sit down ; but 
observing that the old man eat, and prayed not, nor begged for a 
blessing on his meat, he asked him why he did not worship the 
God of heaven. The old man told him that he worshipped the 
fire only, and acknowledged no other God. At which answer 
/Vbraham grew so zealously angry, that he thrust the old man out 
of his tent, and exposed him to all the evils of the night, and an 
unguarded condition. When the old man was gone, God called 



1660-1685.] taylor. 221 

to Abraham, and asked him where the stranger was. He re- 
plied, I thrust him away because he did not worship thee. God 
answered him, I have suffered him these hundred years, although, 
he dishonored me ; and couldst not thou endure him one night ? 

ON CONTENT. 

Since all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing be- 
tween the object and the appetite, as when a man hath what he 
desires not, or desires what he hath not, or desires amiss, he that 
composes his spirit to the present accident hath variety of instances 
for his virtue, but none to trouble him, because his desires enlarge 
not beyond his present fortune : and a wise man is placed in the 
variety of chances, like the nave or centre of a wheel in the midst 
of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture, without violence 
or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with its changed 
parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which is down ; for 
there is some virtue or other to be exercised whatever happens — 
either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation or hu- 
mility, charity or contentedness. 

It conduces much to our content, if we pass by those things 
which happen to our trouble, and consider that which is pleasing 
and prosperous ; that, by the representation of the better, the worse 
may be blotted out. 

It may be thou art entered into the cloud which will bring a 
gentle shower to refresh thy sorrows. 

I am fallen into the hands of publicans and sequestrators, and 
they have taken all from me : what now ? let me look about me. 
They have left me the sun and moon, fire and water, a loving wife, 
and many friends to pity me, and some to relieve me, and I can 
still discourse ; and, unless I list, they have not taken away my 
merry countenance, and my cheerful spirit, and a good conscience ; 
they still have left me the providence of God, and all the promises 
of the Gospel, and my religion, and my hopes of heaven, and my 
charity to them too : and still I sleep and digest, I eat and drink, 
I read and meditate, I can walk in my neighbor's pleasant fields, 1 

l Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 
Are free alike to all.— Burns. 
I care not Fortune, what you me deny, 

You cannot rob me of free nature's grace, 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face. 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 

The woods and lawns by living stream at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.— Thomsoh. 
19* 



222 TAYLOR. [CHARLES IT. 

and see the varieties of natural beauties, and delight in all that in 
which God delights, that is, in virtue and wisdom, in the whole 
creation, and in God himself. 

ON COVETOUSNESS. 

Covetousness swells the principal to no purpose, and lessens 
the use to all purposes ; disturbing the order of nature, and the 
designs of God ; making money not to be the instrument of ex- 
change or charity, nor corn to feed himself or the poor, nor wool 
to clothe himself or his brother, nor wine to refresh the sadness of 
the afflicted, nor oil to make his own countenance cheerful ; but 
all these to look upon, and to tell over, and to take accounts by, 
and make himself considerable, and wondered at by fools, that 
while he lives he may be called rich, and when he dies may be 
accounted miserable. It teaches men to be cruel and crafty; in- 
dustrious and evil; full of care and malice ; and, after all this, it is 
for no good to itself, for it dares not spend those heaps of treasure 
which it snatched. 

ADVERSITY. 1 

All is well as long as the sun shines, and the fair breath of 
heaven gently wafts us to our own purposes. But if you will 
try the excellency, and feel the work of faith, place the man in a 
persecution ; let him ride in a storm, let his bones be broken with 
sorrow, and his eyes loosened with sickness, let his bread be dipped 
with tears, and all the daughters of music be brought low ; let us 
come to sit upon the margin of our grave, and let a tyrant lean 
hard upon our fortunes, and dwell upon our wrong ; let the storm 
arise, and the keels toss till the cordage crack, or that all our 
hopes bulge under us, and descend into the hollovvness of sad mis- 
fortunes. 

1 In the reproof of chance 

Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, 

How many shallow bauble boats dare sail 

Upon her patient breast, making their way 

With those of nobler bulk ! 

But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage 

The gentle Thetis, and anon, behold, 

The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cuts, 

Bounding between the two moist elements, 

Like Perseus' horse: where's then the saucy boat, 

Whose weak-untimber'd sides but even now 

Co-rivall'd greatness ?— Troilus and Cressida. 
See Bacon's beautiful "Essay on Adversity," where he says — 

"But to speak in a mean, the virtue of prosperity is temperance, the virtue of adversity is forti- 
tude, which in morals is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament, 
Adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and the clearei revelar 
tion of God's favor. Yet even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear aa 
many hearse-like airs as carols." 



1660-1685.] taylor. 223 

ON THE MISERIES OF A MAN'S LIFE. 

How few men in the world are prosperous ! What an infinite 
number of slaves and beggars, of persecuted and oppressed peo- 
ple, fill all corners of the earth with groans, and heaven itself with 
weeping, prayers and sad remembrances ! If we could, from one 
of the battlements of heaven, espy how many men and women at 
this time lie fainting and dying for want of bread ; how many 
young men are hewn down by the sword of war ; how many 
poor orphans are now weeping over the graves of their father, by 
whose life they were enabled to eat ; if we could but hear how 
mariners and passengers are at this present in a storm, and shriek 
out because their keel dashes against a rock or bulges under them; 
how many people there are that weep with want, and are mad 
with oppression, or are desperate by too quick a sense of constant 
infelicity; in all reason we should be glad to be out of the noise 
and participation of so many evils. This is a place of sorrows and 
tears, of so great evils and a constant calamity : let us remove 
from hence, at least, in affections and preparation of mind. 

THE DAWN AND PROGRESS OF REASON. 

Some are called at age at fourteen, some at one-and-twenty, 
some never; but all men late enough; for the life of a man comes 
upon him slowly and insensibly. But as when the sun approaches 
towards the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of 
heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light 
to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the 
fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out 
his golden horns, like those which decked the brows of Moses 
when he was forced to wear a veil, because himself had seen the 
face of God ; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up 
higher, till he shows a fair face and a full light, and then he shines 
one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great 
and little showers, and sets quickly ; so is a man's reason and his 
life. 

WHAT IS LIFE? 

It is a mighty change that is made by the death of every per 
son, and it is visible to us who are alive. Reckon but from the 
sprightfulness of youth and the fair cheeks and full eyes of child- 
hood, from the vigorousness and strong flexure of the jomts ofr 
five-and-twenty, to the hollowness and dead paleness, to the loath- 
someness and horror of a three days' burial, and we shall perceive 
the distance to be very great and very strange. But so have I 
seen a rose newly springing from the clefts of its hood, and at first 
it was fair as the morning, and full with the dew of heaven, as the 



224 TAYLOR. [CHARLES II. 

lamb's fleece ; but when the ruder breath had forced open its 
virgin modesty, and dismantled its too youthful and unripe retire- 
ments, it began to put on darkness and to decline to softness and 
the symptoms of a sickly age ; it bowed the head and broke its 
stalk, and at night, having lost some of its leaves, and all its beauty, 
it fell into the portion of weeds and out-worn faces. So does the 
fairest beauty change, and it will be as bad with you and me ; and 
then what servants shall we have to wait upon us in the grave ? 
What friends to visit us ? What officious people to cleanse away 
the moist and unwholesome cloud reflected upon our faces from 
the sides of the weeping vaults, which are the longest weepers for 
our funerals ? 

A man may read a sermon, the best and most passionate that 
ever man preached, if he shall but enter into the sepulchres of 
kings. In the same Escurial where the Spanish princes live in 
greatness and power, and decree war or peace, they have wisely 
placed a cemetery where their ashes and their glory shall sleep till 
time shall be no more: and where our kings have been crowned, 
their ancestors lie interred, and they must walk over their grand- 
sire's head to take his crown. There is an acre sown with royal 
seed, the copy of the greatest change from rich to naked, from 
ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from living like gods to die like men. 
There is enough to cool the flames of lust, to abate the heights of 
pride, to appease the itch of covetous desires, to sully and dash 
oat the dissembling colors of a lustful', artificial, and imaginary 
beauty. There the warlike and the peaceful, the fortunate and 
the miserable, the beloved and the despised princes, mingle their 
dust, and pay down their symbol of mortality, and tell all the world 
that when we die, our ashes shall be equal to kings, and our ac- 
counts easier, and our pains for our crimes shall be less. To my 
apprehension, it is a sad record which is left by Athenseus con- 
cerning Ninus the great Assyrian monarch, whose life and death 
is summed up in these words : "Ninus the Assyrian had an ocean 
of gold, and other riches more than the sand in the Caspian sea; 
he never saw the stars, and perhaps he never desired it; he never 
stirred up the holy fire among the Magi, nor touched his god 
with the sacred rod according to the laws : he never offered sacri- 
fice, nor worshipped the deity, nor administered justice, nor spake 
to the people ; nor numbered them ; but he was most valiant to 
eat and drink, and having mingled his wines, he threw the rest 
upon the stones. This man is dead, behold his sepulchre, and 
now hear where Ninus is. Sometime I was Ninus, and drew the 
oreath of a living man, but now am nothing but clay. I have 
nothing but what I did eat, and what I served to myself in lust is 
all my portion : the wealth with which I was blessed, my enemies 
meeting together shall carry away, as the mad Thyades carry a 



lt'C>0-1685.] cowley. 225 

raw goat. I am gone to hell : and when I went thither, I neither 
carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. I, that wore a mitre, 
am now a little heap of dust." 1 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1618—1667. 

Abraham Cowley is the first, in order of time, of the list of English poets 
whose works were edited, and whose lives were written by Doctor Johnson. 
He was born in London in 1618. His father, who was a grocer by trade, 
died before his birth ; but his mother succeeded in procuring his admission 
into Westminster School as a king's scholar, where he became distinguished 
for correct classical scholarship. He very early imbibed a taste for poetry — 
it is said from Spenser's Faerie Queene being thrown in his way ; and in his 
sixteenth year he published a collection of verses under the appropriate title 
of Poetical Blossoms. In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity College, 
Cambridge, where he continued to reside till 1643, when he removed to Ox- 
ford. From this time he took a very active part in the royal cause, and was 
employed on some missions of trust ; and when, in the progress of the civil 
war, the queen was compelled to quit the kingdom, Cowley accompanied her 
to France, and was of material assistance to her, in managing the secret cor- 
respondence between herself and her royal consort. 

In 1656 he returned to England, and soon after his arrival published an 
edition of his poems, containing most of those which now appear in his 
works. When the Restoration came, he naturally looked for some reward 
for his long services in the royal cause. But alas ! " how wretched is that 
poor man that hangs on princes' favors." Cowley was destined to much bit- 
ter disappointment. At length he obtained the lease of a farm at Chertsey, 
by which his income was raised to about £300 a year. But he did not live 
long to enjoy his retirement ; for, taking a severe cold and fever by exposure, 
he died on July 28, 1667. 

At the time of his death, Cowley certainly ranked as the first poet in Eng- 
land, though the Comus of Milton and some of his exquisite minor poems 
had been published nearly thirty years before. But what could be expected 
of an age that was stamped with the licentiousness of such a court as that of 
Charles II.? Still, though Cowley has nothing of the reputation he once had, 
he has sufficient merit to give him a considerable rank among British poets. 
Dr. Johnson says, " It may be affirmed that he brought to his poetic labors a 
mind replete with learning, and that his pages are embellished with all the 
ornaments which books could supply ; that he was the first who imparted to 
English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gayety of the less; 
and that he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies and for lofty flights." 
His poetical works are divided into four parts — " Miscellanies," " Love Verses," 
"Pindaric Odes," and the "Davidies, a heroical poem of the Troubles of 
David." Of all these his Anacreontics are the most natural and pleasing. 2 

1 " He who wrote in this manner also wore a mitre, and is now a heap of dust; but when the name 
of Jeremy Taylor is no longer remembered with reverence, genius will have become a mockery, and 
virtue an empty shade \"—Hazltit. 

2 The best edition of Cowley is that by Bishop Hurd, in three volumes: read also, Johnson's Life 
Of Cowley in bis " Lives of the British Poets." 

r 



226 COWLEY. [CHARLES II. 



A mighty pain to love it is, 
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss, 
But, of all pains, the greatest pain 
It is to love, but Love in vain. 
Virtue now nor noble blood, 
Nor wit, by love is understood. 
Gold alone does passion move ! 
Gold monopolizes love ! 
A curse on her and on the man 
Who this traffic first began ! 
A curse on him who found the ore ! 
A curse on him who digg'd the stoie 
A curse on him who did refine it ! 
A curse on him who first did coin it .1 
A curse, all curses else above, 
On him who used it first in love ! 
Gold begets in brethren hate ; 
Gold, in families, debate ; 
Gold does friendship separate; 
Gold does civil wars create. 
These the smallest harms of it ; 
Gold, alas ! does love beget. 

THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy insect ! what can be 

In happiness compared to thee? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 

Nature waits upon thee still, 

And thy verdant cup does fill ; 

'Tis filfd wherever thou dost tread, 

Nature's self's thy Ganymede. 

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, 

Happier than the happiest king ! 

All the fields which thou dost see, 

All the plants belong to thee 5 

All that summer hours produce, 

Fertile made with early juice. 

Man for thee does sow and plough ; 

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 

Thou dost innocently joy ; 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 

More harmonious than he. 

Thee country hinds with gladness hear 

Prophet of the ripen'd year ! 

Thee Phcebus loves, and does inspire j 

Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee, of all things upon earth, 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 

Happy insect ! happy thou, 

Dost neither age nor winter know ; 



1660-1685.] cowley. 227 

But when thou'st drunk, ai d danced, and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, 

(Voluptuous and wise withal, 

Epicurean annual!) 

Sated with thy summer feast, 

Thou retir'st to endless rest. 

The following are four stanzas of one of his best pieces, entitled 

HYMN TO LIGHT. 

Hail ! active Nature's watchful life and health ! 

Her joy, her ornament, and wealth! 

Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee ! 

Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he! 

Say, from what golden quivers of the sky 

Do all thy winged arrows fly? 

Swiftness and Power by birth are thine ; 

From thy great Sire they come, thy Sire, the Word Divine. 

Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, 

Dost thy bright wood of stars survey, 

And all the year dost with thee bring 

Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. 

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above 

The Suns gilt tent for ever move, 

And still, as thou in pomp aost go, 

The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. 

Cowley's prose essays are much better than his poetry. Dr. Johnson, in 
speaking of them, says, " His thoughts are natural, and his style has a smooth 
and placid equability, which has never yet obtained its due commendation. 
Nothing is far-sought or hard-labored ; but all is easy without feebleness, and 
familiar without grossness :" and Dr. Drake, one of the most judicious of 
modern critics, remarks, that "to Cowley we may justly ascribe the formation 
of a basis on which has since been constructed the present correct and admi- 
rable fabric of our language. His words are pure and well chosen, the 
collocation simple and perspicuous, and the members of his sentences dis- 
tinct and harmonious." 

ON MYSELF. 

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it 
grates his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and the 
reader's ears to hear any thing of praise from him. There is no 
danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my mind, 
nor my body, nor my fortune, allow me any materials for that 
vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have 
preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defec- 
tive side. As far as my memory can return back into my past 
life, before I knew or was capable of guessing what the world, or 
glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul 
gave a secret bent of aversion from them, as some plants are said 
to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to them- 



223 COWLEY. [CHARLES II. 

sehes, and inscrutable to man's understanding. Even when I 
was a very young boy at school, instead of running about on holi- 
days, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, 
and walk into the fields, either alone with a book or with some 
one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. That I 
was then of the same mind as I am now, (which, I confess, I won- 
der at myself,) may appear at the latter end of an ode which I 
made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then 
printed, with many other verses. The beginning of it is boyish ; 
but of this part which I here set down, (if a very little were cor- 
rected,) I should hardly now be much ashamed. 

This only grant me, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor 1 would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
Th' unknown are better than ill-known. 

Rumor can ope the grave : 
Acquaintance I would have ; but when 't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage, more 
Than palace, and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space, 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, that happy state, 
I would not fear nor wish my fate, 

But bold ly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day. 

You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets, 
(for the conclusion is taken out of Horace ;) and perhaps it was 
the immature and immoderate love of them which stamped first, 
or rather engraved, the characters in me. They were like letters 
cut in the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, still grow 
proportionably. But how this love came to be produced in me so 
earJy, is a hard question : I believe I can tell the particular little 
chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse as nave 
never since left ringing there : for I remember when I began to 
read, and take some pleasure in it, -there was wont to lie in my 
mother's parlour, (I know not by what accident, for she herself 
never in her life read any book but of devotion;) but there was 
wont to lie Spenser's works ; this I happened to fall upon, and 



1660-1685.] * cowley. 229 

was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, 
and monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there, 
(though my understanding had little to do with all this ;) and by 
degrees, with the tinkling of the rhyme, and dance of the num- 
bers ; so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve 
years old. With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly 
set upon letters, I went to the university ; but was soon torn from 
thence by that public violent storm, which would suffer nothing 
to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even from the 
princely cedars to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as 
could have befallen me in such a tempest ; for I was cast by it 
into the family of one of the best persons, and into the court of one 
of the best princesses in the world. Now, though I was here en- 
gaged in ways most contrary to the original design of my life ; 
that is, into much company, and no small business, and into a 
daily sight of greatness, both militant and triumphant, (for that was 
the state then of the English and the French courts ;) yet all this 
was so far from altering my opinion, that it only added the confir- 
mation of reason to that which was before but natural inclination. 
I saw plainly all the paint of that kind of life, the nearer I came 
to it ; and that beauty which I did not fall in love with, when, for 
aught I knew, it was real, was not like to bewitch or entice me 
when I saw it was adulterate. I met with several great persons 
whom I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of 
their greatness was to be liked or desired, no more than I would 
be glad or content to be in a storm, though I saw many ships 
which rid safely and bravely in it. A storm would not agree 
with my stomach, if it did with my courage ; though I was in a 
crowd of as good company as could be found anywhere, though I 
was in business of great and honorable trust, though I eat at the 
best table, and enjoyed the best conveniences for present subsist- 
ence that ought to be desired by a man of my condition, in banish- 
ment and public distresses ; yet I could not abstain from renewing 
my old schoolboy's wish, in a copy of verses to the same effect : 

Well, then, I now do plainly see 

This busy world and I shall ne'er agree, &c. 

And I never then proposed to myself any other advantage from 
his majesty's happy restoration, but the getting into some mode- 
rately convenient retreat in the country, which I thought in that 
case I might easily have compassed, as well as some others, who, 
with no greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived to extra- 
ordinary fortunes. 

THE PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE. 

The first wish of Virgil was, „o be a good philosopher ; the 
second, a good husbandman ; and God (whom he seemed to 



230 COWLEY. [CHARLES II 

understand better than most of the most learned heathens) dealt 
with him just as he did with Solomon; because he prayed for 
wisdom in the first place, he added all things else which were 
subordinately to be desired. He made him one of the best philo- 
sophers and best husbandmen ; and to adorn both those faculties, 
the best poet : he made him, besides all this, a rich man, and a man 
who desired to be no richer. To be a husbandman is but a retreat 
from the city ; to be a philosopher, from the world ; or rather, a 
retreat from the world as it is man's, into the world as it is God's. 
But since nature denies to most men the capacity or appetite, and 
fortune allows but to a very few the opportunities or possibility of 
applying themselves wholly to philosophy, the best mixture of 
human affairs that we can make are the employments of a country 
life. 

We are here among the vast and noble scenes of nature ; we 
are there (alluding to courts and cities) among the pitiful shifts of 
policy : we walk here in the light and open ways of the divine 
bounty ; we grope there in the dark and confused labyrinths of 
human malice : our senses are here feasted with the clear and 
genuine taste of their objects, which are all sophisticated there, 
and for the most part overwhelmed with their contraries. Here 
pleasure looks (methinks) like a beautiful, constant, and modest 
wife ; it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted harlot. Here 
is harmless and cheap plenty, there guilty and expenseful luxury. 

I shall only instance in one delight more, the most natural and 
best natured of all others, a perpetual companion of the husband- 
man ; and that is, the satisfaction of looking round about him, and 
seeing nothing but the effects and improvements of his own art 
and diligence : to be always gathering of some fruits of it, and at 
the same time to behold others ripening, and others budding ; to 
see all his fields and gardens covered with the beauteous creations 
of his own industry ; and to see, like God, that all his works are 
good. 

CHARACTER OF CROMWELL. 1 

What can be more extraordinary than that a person of mean 
birth, no fortune, no eminent qualities of body, which have some- 
times, or of mind, which have often, raised men to the highest dig- 
nities, should have the courage to attempt, and the happiness to 
succeed in, so improbable a design as the destruction of one of the 
most ancient and most solidly-founded monarchies upon the earth? 
That he should have the power or boldness to put his prince and 
master to an open and infamous death ; to banish that numerous 

1 " Cowley's character of Oliver Cromwell, which is intended as a satire, (though it certainly pro- 
duces a very different impression on the mind,) may vie for truth of outline and force of coloring 
with tne master-pieces of the Greek and Latin historians."-- Ha zlitt. 



1660-1685.] davenaxt. 231 

and strongly-allied family ; to do all this under the name and 
wages of a parliament ; to trample upon them too as he pleased, 
and spurn them out of doors when he grew weary of them ; to 
raise up a new and unheard-of monster out of their ashes ; to stifle 
that in the very infancy, and set up himself above all things that 
ever were called sovereign in England ; to oppress all his enemies 
by arms, and all his friends afterwards by artifice ; to serve all 
parties patiently for awhile, and to command them victoriously at 
last ; to over-run each corner of the three nations, and overcome 
with equal facility both the riches of the south and the poverty of 
the north ; to be feared and courted by all foreign princes, aud 
adopted a brother to the gods of the earth ; to call together parlia- 
ments with a word of his pen, and scatter them again with the 
breath of his mouth ; to be humbly and daily petitioned that he 
would please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be 
the master of those who had hired him before to be their servant ; 
to have the estates and lives of three kingdoms as much at his dis- 
posal as was the little inheritance of his father, and to be as noble 
and liberal in the spending of them ; and lastly (for there is no 
end of all the particulars of his glory,) to bequeath all this with one 
word to his posterity; to die with peace at home, and triumph 
abroad ; to be buried among kings, and with more than regal so- 
lemnity ; and to leave a name behind him, not to be extinguished, 
but with the whole world ; which, as it is now too little for his 
praises, so might have been too for his conquests, if the short line 
of his human life could have been stretched out to the extent of 
his immortal designs ? 



SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1605—1668. 

Sir William Davena^t, though now read chiefly by the antiquary in 
English literature, had, in his lifetime, considerable celebrity as a writer. He 
was born in 1605 at Oxford, where his father kept an inn, and was educated 
at that university. He early began to write for the stage, and on Ben Jon- 
son's death was made Poet-Laureate. 1 In the civil wars he held a consider- 
able post in the army, and was knighted by the king; but on the decline of 
the royalists, whose cause he had espoused, he sought refuge in France, where 

1 From the Latin laureatus, " crowned with laurel." Under the Roman emperors, poets contended 
at the public games, and the prize was a crown of oak or olive leaves. From this custom, most of the 
European sovereigns assumed the privilege of nominating a court poet with various titles, in Eng- 
'and, traces of this office are found as early as the reign of Henry III., (1210—1272,) but the express 
itle, poet-laureate, does not occur till the reign of Edward IV., (1461 — 1483,) when John Kay received 
the appointment. The office was made patent by Charles I., and the salary fixed at £100 per year, 
and a tierce of wine. In the reign of George III. the salary was increased, and the wine dispensed 
witn, and also the custom of requiring annual odes. The succession of poets-laureate has been, I be- 
lie ire, since Davenant's day, John Dryden, Nahum Tate, Nicholas Rowe, Laurence Eusden. Colley 
Gibber, William Whitehead, Thomas Warton, Henry James Pye, and Robert Southey, 



232 DAVENANT. [CHARLES II. 

he wrote two books of his poem for which he is most known — his « Gondi- 
bert" — under the patronage of Henrietta Maria, that " ill-fated, ill-ad vised 
queen'' of Charles I. By her he was despatched with a colony of artificers 
for Virginia. He had scarcely cleared the French coast when his vessel was 
taken by a parliamentary ship, and he was sent prisoner to Cowes Castle. 
Here, with great composure and manliness of mind, he continued his poem 
till he had carried through about one-half of what he designed, when he sud- 
denly broke off, expecting immediately to be led to execution. His life, how- 
ever, was spared, through the intercession of two aldermen of York, (whom 
Davenant had rescued from great peril in the civil wars,) united to the then 
all-powerful influence of Milton. After his release he supported himself by 
writing plays till the Restoration, when, beautiful to relate, it is believed that 
Milton himself was spared at his intercession, in return for his own preser- 
vation. 

The fame of Sir William Davenant rests principally on his heroic poem, 
Gondibert; the main story of which, as far as developed, is as follows. Duke 
Gondibert and Prince Oswald were renowned knights, in the reign of Ari- 
bert, king of Lombardy, 653 — 661. Oswald sought the hand of Rhodalind, 
the only daughter of Aribert, and heiress to the crown: but the king preferred 
Gondibert, — a choice in which Rhodalind fully concurred. It happened that 
" In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, 

Fresh, as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, 
The duke, with many lovers in his train, 
Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made." 
The duke, on his return from die chase, is surprised by an ambush, laid by 
the jealous Oswald. A parley succeeds, and it is finally agreed that the quar 
rel shall be decided by the two leaders and three of the chief captains on 
each side. The combat accordingly takes place. Oswald and two of his 
friends are slain, and a third wounded and disarmed. Oswald's men are 
therefore so enraged that they immediately commence a general attack upon 
Gondibert, who is victorious, though severely wounded. He retires to the 
house of Astragon, a famous physician, where he is scarcely recovered from 
his wounds before he receives others of a more gentle kind from the eyes of 
Birtha, the daughter of Astragon, by whose permission he becomes her pro- 
fessed but secret lover. While the friends of Oswald are forming schemes of 
revenge for their recent defeat, a messenger arrives from Aribert to signify 
his intention of honoring Gondibert with the hand of Rhodalind ; and he and 
his daughter follow shortly afterwards. The duke is therefore obliged to ac- 
company them back to the court, and leave behind that which is far more pre- 
cious to him than a crown or Rhodalind. On parting from Birtiia, he gives 
her an emerald ring, which had been for ages the token of his ancestors to 
their betrothed brides; and which, by its change of color, would indicate any 
change in his affection. The arrival of some of the party at the capital con- 
cludes this singular and original fragment of a poem, — for a fragment it must 
be called, and we cannot but deeply regret that the author did not finish it. 1 

"In the character and love of Birtha," remarks an able critic, "we have a 



l This poem nas divided the critics. Bishop Hurd, in his " Letters on Chivalry and Romance," 
finds fault with Davenant because he rejects all machinery and supernatural agency. On the otner 
hand, Dr. Aikin ably defends him. Read — "Miscellanies in Prose, by John Aikin, M. D., and Letitia 
Barbauld:" also, the prefatory remarks in the fourth volume of Anderson's "British Poets;" also, 
vome criticisms of Headley in his "Select Beauties," p. xlvi. : also, "Retrospective Review," ii. 304: 
iiuu a iew good remarks in " Campbell's Specimens," iv. 97. 



1660-1685.] davenant. 233 

picture of most absolute loveliness and dove-like simplicity. Never was that 
aengktful passion portrayed with a more chaste and exquisite pencil/' l 

CHARACTER AND LOVE OF BIRTHA. 

To Astragon, heaven for succession gave 

One only pledge, and Birtha was her name ; 
Whose mother slept, where flowers grew on her grave, 

And she succeeded her in face and fame. 

She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone 

With untaught looks and an unpractised heart ; 
Her nets, the most prepared could never shun ; 

For nature spread them in the scorn of art. 

She never had in busy cities been, 

Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'd with fears; 
Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 

And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 

But here her father's precepts gave her skill, 

Which with incessant business fill'd the hours ; 
In Spring, she gather'd blossoms for the still ; 

In Autumn, berries ; and in Summer, flowers. 

And as kind nature with calm diligence 

Her own free virtue silently employs. 
Whilst she, unheard, does ripening growth dispense 

So were her virtues busy without noise. 

Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends, 

The busy household waits no less on her; 
By secret law, each to her beauty bends ; 

Though all her lowly mind to that prefer. 
******* 

The just historians Birtha thus express, 

And tell how, by her sire's example taught, 
She served the wounded duke in life's distress, 

And his fled spirits back by cordials brought ; 

Black melancholy mists, that fed despair 

Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervain clear'd; 
Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air, 

And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd. 

He that had served great Love with reverend heart, 
In these old wounds worse wounds from him endures ; 

For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart, 
And she kills faster than her father cures. 

Her heedless innocence as little knew 

The wounds she gave, as those from Love she tooK ; 

l '-'The longer we dwell upon this noble but unfinished monument of the genius of Sir William 
Davenant, the more does our admiration of it increase, and we regret that the unjust attacks which 
were made against it at the time, (or whatever else was the cause,) prevented its completion. It 
n.ight then, notwithstanding the prophetical oblivion to which Bishop Hnrd has, with some acrimony, 
condemned it, have been entitled to a patent of nobility, and had its name inscribed upon the roll of 
epic aristocracy." — Ret. Reu. u 324. 

20* 



234 DAVENANT. [CHAKLES n. 

And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew ; 
Which at their stars he first in triumph shook 

Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before ; 

But finds him now a bold unquiet guest ; 
Who climbs to windows when we shut the door ; 

And, enter'd, never lets the master rest. 

So strange disorder, now he pines for health, 

Makes him conceal this reveller with shame; 
She not the robber knows, yet feels the stealth, 

And never but in songs had heard his name. 



She, full of inward questions, walks alone, 
To take her heart aside in secret shade ; 

But knocking at her breast, it seem'd or gone 
Or by confederacy was useless made ; 

Or else some stranger did usurp its room ; 

One so remote, and new in every thought, 
As his behavior shows him not at home, 

Nor the guide sober that him thither brought. 



With open ears, and ever-waking eyes, 

And flying feet, Love's fire she from the sight 

Of all her maids does carry, as from spies ; 

Jealous, that what burns her, might give them light. 

Beneath a myrtle covert now does spend 

In maids' weak wishes, her whole stock of thought ; 

Fond maids ! who love with mind's fine stuff would mend 
Which Nature purposely of bodies wrought. 

She fashions him she loved of angels kind, 

Such as in holy story were employ'd 
To the first fathers from th' Eternal Mind. 

And in short visions only are enjoy' d. 

As eagles then, when nearest heaven they fly, 

Of wild impossibles soon weary grow ; 
Feeling their bodies find no rest so high, 

And therefore perch on earthly things below : 

So now she yields ; him she an angel deem'd 
Shall be a man, the name which virgins fear; 

Yet the most harmless to a maid he seem'd, 
That ever yet that fatal name did bear. 

Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart, 

Affection turns to faith ; and then love's fire 

To heaven, though bashfully, she does impart ; 
And to her mother in the heavenly choir. 

If I do love, (said she,) that love, O Heaven ! 

Your own disciple, Nature, bred in me ; 
Why should 1 hide the passion you have given, 

Or blush to show effects which you decree' 2 



1660-1685.] DAVENANT. 235 

And you, my alter'd mother, (grown above 

Great nature, which you read and reverenced here,) 

Chide not such kindness, as you once call'd love, 
When you as mortal as my father were. 

This said, her soul into her breast retires ; 

With Love's vain diligence of heart she dreams 
Herself into possession of desires, 

And trusts unanchor'd hope in fleeting streams : 
Already thinks the duke her own spoused lord, 

Cured, and again from bloody battle brought, 
Where all false lovers perish'd by his sword, 

The true to her for his protection sought. 

She thinks how her imagined spouse and she 
So much from heaven may by her virtues gain, 

That they by time shall ne'er o'ertaken be, 
No more than Time himself is overta'en. 

She thinks of Eden-life ; and no rough wind 

In their pacific sea shall wrinkles make ; 
That still her lowliness shall keep him kind, 

Her cares keep him asleep, her voice awake. 

She thinks, if ever anger in him sway, 

(The youthful warrior's most excused disease,) 

Such chance her tears shall calm, as showers allay 
The accidental rage of winds and seas. 

Thus to herself in day-dreams Birtha talks: 

The duke, (whose wounds of war are healthful grown,) 
To cure Love's wounds, seeks Birtha where she walks : 

Whose wandering soul seeks him to cure her own. 
Yet when her solitude he did invade, 

Shame (which in maids is unexperienced fear) 
Taught her to wish night's help to make more shade, 

That love (which maids think guilt) might not appear. 
And she had fled him now, but that, he came 

So like an awed and conquer'd enemy, 
That he did seem offenceless, as her shame ; 

As if he but advanced for leave to fly. 

Of his minor pieces, we have room but for the following beautiful 
SONG. 
The lark now leaves his watery nest, 

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings ; 
He takes this window for the east ; 

And to implore your light, he sings, — 
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, 
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. 

The ploughman from the sun his season takes , 

But still the lover wonders what they are 
Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 

Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn , 

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. 



236 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. [CHARLES II. 



MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. Died 1673. 

This lady was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born about the 
end of the reign of James the First. She early manifested a fondness for 
literary pursuits, and the greatest care was bestowed upon her education. 
Having been appointed one of the maids of honor to Henrietta Maria, the 
queen of Charles the First, she attended her when she fled to France, dur- 
ing the civil commotions ; and having met with the Marquis of Newcastle 
at Paris, she there became his wife in 1645. Her lord, soon after their 
marriage, went to Antwerp to reside, and found her a most faithful and 
affectionate companion of his long and honorable exile. At the Restora- 
tion they returned to England. 

" The labors of no modern authoress can be compared, as to quantity, 
with those of our indefatigable duchess, who has filled nearly twelve vol- 
umes, folio, with plays, poems, orations, philosophical discourses, &c. 
Her writings show that she possessed a mind of considerable power and ac- 
tivity, with much imagination, but not one particle of judgment or taste." 1 

MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY. 

As I was musing by myself alone, 

My thoughts brought several things to work upon : 

At last came two, which diversely were drest, 

One Melancholy, t'other Mirth exprest ; 

Here Melancholy stood in black array, 

And Mirth was all in colors fresh and gay. 

Mirth. 
Mirth laughing came, and running to me, flung 
Her fat white arms about my neck, there hung, 
Embraced and kiss'd me oft, and stroked my cheek, 
Saying, she would no other lover seek : 
I'll sing you songs, and please you every day, 
Invent new sports to pass the time away ; 
I'll keep your heart, and guard it from that thief, 
Dull Melancholy, Care, or sadder Grief, 
And make your eyes with Mirth to overflow ; 
With springing blood your cheeks soon fat shall grow ; 
Your legs shall nimble be, your body light, 
And all your spirits, like to birds in flight. 
Mirth shall digest your meat, and make you strong, 
Shall give you health, and your short days prolong ; 
Refuse me not, but take me to your wife ; 
For I shall make you happy all your life. 
But Melancholy, she will make you lean, 
Your cheeks shall hollow grow, your jaws be seen ; 
Your eyes shall buried be within your head, 
And look as pale as if you were quite dead ; 



1 J>ev. Alexander Dyce's "Specimens of British Poetesses." Read, also, a very excellent notice 
of her in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative Biography," in which he remarks, " that considerable 
as is the alloy of absurd passages in many of her grace's compositions, there are few of them in which 
there are not proofs of an active, thinking, original mind. Her imagination was quick, copious, and 
sometimes even beautiful, yet her taste appears to have been not only uncultivated, but, perhaps, 
originally defective 



1660-1685.] duchess oe Newcastle. 237 

She'll make you start at every noise you hear, 

And visions strange shall to your eyes appear , 

Thus would it be, if you to her were wed : 

Nay, better far it were that you were dead. 

Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound ; 

She hates the light, and is in darkness found ; 

Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, 

Which various shadows make against the wall. 

She loves nought else but noise which discord makes 

As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes ; 

The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, 

And shrieking owls, which fly in tlf night alone ; 

The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out ; 

A mill, where rushing waters run about ; 

The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, 

Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. 

She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, 

And in a thick dark grove she takes delight ; 

In hollow caves, thatch'd houses, and low cells, 

She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. 

Then leave her to herself alone to dwell, 

Let you and I in Mirth and Pleasure swell, 

And drink long lusty draughts from Bacchus' bowl, 

Until our brains on vaporous waves do roll ; 

Let's joy ourselves in amorous delights ; 

There's none so happy as the carpet knights. 

Melancholy. 
Then Melancholy, with sad and sober face, 
Complexion pale, but of a comely grace, 
With modest countenance thus softly spake 
May I so hap joy be your love to take ? 
True, I am dull, yet by me you shall know 
More of yourself, and so much wiser grow ; 
I search the depth and bottom of mankind, 
Open the eye of ignorance that's blind ; 
All dangers to avoid I watch with care, 
And do 'gainst evils that may come prepare; 
I hang not on inconstant fortune's wheel, 
Nor yet with unresolving doubts do reel ; 
I shake not with the terrors of vain fears, 
Nor is my mind fill'd with unuseful cares ; 
I do not spend my time, like idle Mirth, 
Which only happy is just at her birth ; 
And seldom lives so long as to be old, 
But if she doth, can no affections hold ; 
Mirth good for nothing is, like weeds doth grow, 
Or such plants as cause madness, reason's foe. 
Her face with laughter crumples on a heap, 
Which makes great wrinkles, and ploughs furrows deep j 
Her eyes do water, and her skin turns red, 
Her mouth doth gape, teeth bare, like one that's dead, 
She fulsome is, and gluts the senses all, 
Offers herself, and comes before a call ; 
Her house is built upon the golden sands, 
Yet no foundation has, whereon it stands j 



288 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. [CHARLES II. 

A palace 'tis, and of a great resort, 

It makes a noise, and gives a loud report. 

Yet underneath the roof disasters lie, 

Beat down the house, and many kill'd thereby: 

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun, 

Sit on the banks by which clear waters run ; 

In summers hot, down in a shade I lie, 

My music is the buzzing of a fly ; 

I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass, 

In fields, where corn is high, I often pass ; 

Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, 

Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be ; 

Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, 

To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; 

In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, 

Then I do live in a small house alone : 

Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, 

Like to a soul that's pure and clear from sin ; 

And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, 

Not filfd with cares how riches to increase; 

I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures, 

No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. 

Thus am I solitary, live alone, 

Yet better loved the more that I am known ; 

And though my face ill-favor'd at first sight, 

After acquaintance it will give delight. 

Refuse me not, for I shall constant be, 

Maintain your credit and your dignity. 

OF THE THEME OF LOVE 

Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme ! 
Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb ; 
And from thy branches every one takes some 
Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. 
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor, 
That jthey can hardly gather one plum more. 

THE FUNERAL OF CALAMITY. 

Calamity was laid on Sorrow's hearse, 
And coverings had of melancholy verse ; 
Compassion, a kind friend did mourning go, 
And tears about the corpse, as flowers, strow, 
A garland of deep sighs, by Pity made, 
Upon Calamity's sad corpse was laid; 
Bells of complaints did ring it to the grave, 
Poets of monument of fame it gave. 



1060-1685.] milton. 



JOHN MILTON. 1608—1674. 

Is not each great, each amiable Muse 
Of classic ages, in thy Milton met ? 
A genius universal as his theme ; 
Astonishing as Chaos ; as the bloom 
Of blowing Eden fair ; as Heaven sublime. 

Thomson 

Nor second he, that rode sublime 

"Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 

The secrets of th' abyss to spy. 

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: 

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, 

Where angels tremble while they gaze, 

He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 

Closed his eyes in endless night. Gray. 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice, whose sound was like the sea; 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness : and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

Wordsworth, 

Far above all the poets of his own age, and. in learning, invention, ana 
sublimity, without an equal in the whole range of English literature, stands 
John Milton. He was born in London, December 9, 1608. His father, 
who was a scrivener, and who had suffered much for conscience' sake, doubt- 
less infused into his son those principles of religious freedom which made 
him, in subsequent years, the bulwark of that holy cause in England. He 
was also early instructed in music, to which may doubtless be attributed that 
richness and harmony of his versification which distinguished him as much 
as his learning and imagination. His early education was conducted with 
great care. At sixteen he entered the University of Cambridge. After leav- 
ing the university, where he was distinguished for his scholarship, he retired 
to the house of his father, who had relinquished business, ar.d had purchased 
a small property at Horton in Buckinghamshire. Here he lived rive years, 
devoting his time most assiduously to classical literature, making the well- 
known remark that he " cared not how late he came into life, onli 
that he came FIT.' 1 While in the university he had written his grand 
" Hymn on the Nativity, any one verse of which was sufficient to show that 
a new and great light was about to rise on English poetry :" and there, at his 
father's, he wrote his " Comus," and " Lycidas," his " L'Allegro," and " II Pen- 
seroso," and his " Arcades." 

In 1638 he went to Italy, the most accomplished Englishman that ever 
visited her classical shores. Here his society was courted by « the choicest 
Italian wits," and he visited Galileo, 1 then a prisoner in the Inquisition. On 
his return home, he opened a school in London, and devoted himself with 
great assiduity to the business of instruction. In the mean time, he entered 
into the religious disputes of the day, engaging in the controversy smgnv 
handed against all the royalists and prelates ; and though numbering among 

1 " The Tuscan artist." Paradise Lost, book i. line 288. 



240 MILTON. [CHARLES UL 

his antagonists such men as Bishop Hall and Archbishop Usher, proving him- 
self equal to them all. Ln 1643 he married the daughter of Richard Powell, 
a high royalist ; but the connection did not prove a happy one, his wife being 
utterly incapable of appreciating the loftiness and purity of the poet's charac- 
ter. In 1649 he was appointed foreign secretary under Cromwell, which 
office he held till the death of Cromwell, 1658. 

For ten years Milton's eyesight had been failing, owing to the « wearisome 
studies and midnight watchings" of his youth. The last remains of it were 
sacrificed in the composition of his " Defensio Populi," (Defence of the Peo- 
ple of England;) and by die close of the year 1652 he was totally blind: 
" Dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon." At the Restoration he was 
obliged to conceal himself till the publication of the act of oblivion released 
him from danger. He then devoted himself exclusively to study, and espe- 
cially to the composition of "Paradise Lost." The idea of this unequalled 
poem was probably conceived as early as 1642. It was published in 1667. 
For the first and second editions die blind poet received but the sum of five 
pounds each! In 1671 he produced his "Paradise Regained," and " Samson 
Agonistes." A long sufferer from an hereditary disease, his life was now 
drawing to a close. His mind was calm and bright to the last, and he died 
without a struggle, on Sunday, the 8th of November, 1674. 

It is hardly necessary here to make any criticisms upon the works of this 
" greatest of great men," as essays almost numberless may be found upon his 
life and writings. 1 His chief poetical works are — 1. His " Paradise Lost," in 
twelve books, which is an account of the temptation and fall of our first 
Barents. 2. " Paradise Regained," in four books, depicting the temptation and 
triumph of " the second Adam, the Lord from Heaven." 3. " Samson Ago- 
nistes," 2 a dramatic poem, relating the incidents of the life of the great cham- 
pion of the Israelites, from the period of his blindness to the catastrophe that 
ended in his death. 4. "Lycidas," a monody on the death of a beloved 



1 The best edition of Milton's poetry is that of Todd: London, 1809, 7 vols. This contains the in- 
valuable verbal index. Another excellent edition has been edited by Sir Egerton Brydges, in 6 vols., 
the first volume of which is taken up with his life, written with that taste and discrimination so cha- 
racteristic of the author, to whom English literature is under lasting obligations. The best edi- 
tion of his prose works is by Symmons, 7 vols. 8vo. His prose and poetry have been published in 
London in one large royal 8vo. An edition of his prose works has been edited in this country by 
the Rev. Rufus W. Griswold. An eloquent Essay on Milton may be found in Macaulay's Miscella- 
nies; another in the Retrospective Review, xiv. 282; and another in the London Quarterly, xxxvi. 
29. In the following numbers of the Spectator, Addison has written a series of admirable criticisms 
on the "Paradise Lost:" 262, 267, 273, 279, and so on for fifteen more numbers, at intervals of six, 
being published every Saturday. In No. 76 of the Observer, by Cumberland, there are some remarks 
upon the "Samson Agonistes." Consult, also, Hallanrs "Literature of Europe;" and read an admi- 
rable article on Milton in Dr. Channing's works. 

Of Johnson's "Life," Sir Egerton Brydges justly remarks: "It is written in a bad, malignant, and 
even vulgar spirit. The language is sometimes coarse, and the humor pedantic and gross. The 
criticism on the Paradise Lost is powerful and grand: the criticism on the other poems is mean, 
false, and execrable -Imaginative Biography, i. 149. Of Addison's "Essay," the same writer says: 
" It ought to be studied and almost got by heart by every cultivated mind which understands the 
English language. It is in all respects a masterly performance; just in thought, full of taste and 
the finest sensibility, eloquent and beautiful in composition, widely learned, and so clearly explana- 
tory of the true principles of poetry, that whoever is master of them cannot mistake in his decision 
of poetical merit. It puts Milton above all other poets on such tests as cannot be resisted."— 
Life, i. 221. 

2 That is, "the champion," "the combatant," from the Greek ayiaviVT-qs, (agonistes,) "a combatant 
at the public games." 



1660-1685.] milton. 241 

friend, (Mr. Edward King,) who was shipwrecked in the Irish Sea. 
5. «L' Allegro," an ode to mirth. 6. "11 Penseroso," an ode to melancholy. 
7. « Comus, a mask," the purest and most exquisite creation of the imagina- 
tion and fancy in English literature. 8. "Arcades," 1 a part of a mask, 
9 "Hymn on the Nativity." 10. " Sonnets." 

ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 3 



This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 

Of wedded Maid and Virgin-Mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
For so the holy sages once did sing, 

That he our deadly forfeit should release, 

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 



That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal-Unity, 
He laid aside ; and, here with us to be, 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 



Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God ? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome him to this his new abode, 
Now while the Heaven, by the sun s team untrod, 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? 



See how from far upon the eastern road 

The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet ; 
run, prevent them with thy humble ode, 

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 

Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, 
And join thy voice unto the angel quire, 
From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 

1 "Arcades," that is, the Arcadian shepherds: of course, it is of a pastoral character. 

2 "When it is recollected that this piece was produced by the author at the age of twenty-one, all 
deep thinkers, of fancy and sensibility, must pore over it with delighted wonder. The vigor, the 
grandeur, the imaginativeness of the conception ; the force and maturity of language ; the bound, the 
gathering strength, the thundering roll of the metre; the largeness of the views; the extent ot the 
learning; the solemn and awful tones; the enthusiasm, and a certain spell in the epithets, which puts 
the reader into a state of mysterious excitement, — all these may be better felt than described."— Sir 
Egerton Brydges. 

Q 21 



242 MILTON. [CHARLES H. 

HYMN. 

I. 

It was the winter wild, 
"While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature, in awe to him, 
Had dofTd her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize ; 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 

IT. 

No war, or battle's sound 
Was heard the world around, 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung T 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstain'd with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 

v. 

But peaceful was the night, 
Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kist, 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 



The stars, Math deep amaze, 
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 

Bending one way their precious influence; 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer, that often warn'd them thence; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

Till. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or e'er the point of dawn, 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
Full little thought they than, 
That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

IX. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 

As never was by mortal finger strook • 



1660-1685.] milton. 243 

Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all tlieir souls in blissful rapture took: 
The air, such pleasures loath to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

XIX. 

The oracles are dumb, 
No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in wordt ieceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

xx. 

The lonely mountains o'er 
And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
From haunted spring and dale, 
Edged with poplar pale, 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent : 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, mourn 

XXI. 

In consecrated earth, 
And on the holy hearth, 

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; 
In urns and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat 

XXVII. 

But see, the Virgin bless'd 
Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending : 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
Hath fix'd her polish'd car, 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending, 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harness : d angels sit in order serviceable. 

LYCIDAS. 1 

In this Monody, the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in tits 
passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637 : and by occasion foretells the ruin 
of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth. 

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

1 This poem was made upon the unfortunate and untimely death of Mr. Edward King, son of Su 
John King, Secretary for Ireland, a fellow collegian and intimate friend of Milton, who, as he was 
going to visit his relations in Ireland, was drowned, August 10, 1G37, in the 25th year of his age. I)r 
Newton lias observed, that Lycidas is with great judgment made of the pastoral kind, as both Mr. 



24-1 MILTON. [CHARLES II. 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 

And. with forced fingers rude, 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 5 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 

Compels me to disturb your season due : 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 

He must not float upon his watery bier 

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ! 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: 
So may some gentle Muse 

With lucky words favor my destined urn ; 20 

And, as he passes, turn, 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25 

Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove afield ; and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the star, that rose at evening, bright, 30 

Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Temper'd to the oaten flute ; 

King and Milton had keen designed for holy orders and the pastoral care, which gives a peculiar pro- 
priety to several passages in it. 

Addison says, " that he who desires to know whether he has a true taste for history or not, should 
consider whether he is pleased with Livy's manner of telling a story; so, perhaps it may be said, 
that he who wishes to know whether he has a true taste for poetry or not, should consider whethei 
he is highly delighted or not with the perusal of Milton's Lycidas." — J. Warton. 

"Whatever stern grandeur Milton's two epics and his drama, written in his latter days, exhibit; 
by whatever divine invention they are created ; Lycidas and Comus have a fluency, a sweetness, a 
melody, a youthful freshness, a dewy brightness of description, which those gigantic poems have not. 
The prime charm of poetry, the rapidity and the novelty, yet the natural association of beau- 
tiful ideas, is pre-eminently exhibited in Lycidas; and it strikes me, that there is no poem of Milton, 
in which the pastoral and rural imagery is so breathing, so brilliant, and so new as this."— Sir Egerton 
Brydges. 

"I shall never cease to consider this monody as the sweet effusion of a most poetic and tender 
mind ; entitled as well by its beautiful melody as by the frequent grandeur of its sentiments and 
language, to the utmost enthusiasm of admiration." — Todd. 

Line 3. This is a beautiful allusion to the unripe age of his friend, in which death " shatter'd his 
leaves before the mellowing year." 

L. 15. "The sacred well," Helicon. 

L. 25. " From the regularity of his pursuits, the purity of his pleasures, his temperance, and 
general simplicity of life, Milton habitually became an early riser ; hence he gained an acquaintance 
with the beauties of the morning, which he so frequently contemplated with delight, and has there- 
fore so repeatedly described in all their various appearances."— T. Warton. 

L 27. "We drove afield," that is, we drove our flocks afield. 

I 38. The "sultry horn," is the sharp hum of this insect at noon. 



1660-1685.] milton. 245 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 

From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35 

And old Damcetas loved to hear our song. 

But, 0, the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 

And all their echoes mourn : 
The willows, and hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen, 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 4f> 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; — 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 5@ 

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 55 

Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal Nature did lament, €0 

When by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd"s trade, 35 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, 70 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 75 

And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praise," 

Line 50. "Where were ye ?" "This burst is as magnificent as it is affecting."— Sir E. Brydges. 

L. 58. Reference is here made to Orpheus, torn in pieces by the Bacchanalians, whose murclere. s 
are called "the rout." " Lycidas, as a poet, is here tacitly compared with Orpheus : they were both 
also victims of the water." — T. Warton. 

L. 70, &c. "No lines have been more often cited, and more popular than these; nor more justiy 
Instructive and inspiriting."— Sir Egerton Brydges. 

L. 76. "But not the praise;" that is, but the praise is not intercepted. "While the poet, in the 
character of a shepherd, is moralizing on the uncertainty of human life, Phcebus interposes with a 
sublime strain, above the tone of pastoral poetry: he then, in an abrupt and elliptical apostropho, at 
' O fountain Arethuse;' hastily recollects himself, and apologizes to his rural Muse, or in other words 
to Aretliusa and Mincius, the celebrated streams of bucolic song, for having so suddenly departed 
from pastoral allusions and the tenor of lv'js subject."— T. Warton. 

21* 



246 MILTON. [CHARLES II. 

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ; 

" Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; 8C 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove : 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 

Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." 

fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, 85 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 

That came in Neptune's plea : 90 

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, 
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 
And question'd every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory : 

They knew not of his story; 95 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd ; 

It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 1 00 

Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge . J05 

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 110 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115 

Line 91. " The felon winds," that is, the cruel winds. 

L. 94. "A beaked promontory" is one projecting like the beak of a bird. 

L. 96. "Hippotades," a patronymic noun, the son of Hippotas, that is, .ffiolus. 

L. 101. The shipwreck was occasioned not by a storm, but by the ship's being unfit for such a 
navigation. 

L. 103. "Camus." This is the river Cam, on the borders of which was the University of Cam- 
bridge, where Lycidas was educated. 

L. 104. The "hairy mantle" joined with the " sedge bonnet" may mean the rushy or reedy banks 
of the Cam ; and the " figures dim" refer, it is thought, to the indistinct and dusky streaks on sedge 
leaves or flags when dried. 

L. 109. " The pilot of the Galilean lake," the apostle Peter. 

I.. 114. He here animadverts on the endowments of the church, at the same time Insinuating 
that they were shared by those only who sought the emoluments of the sacred office, to the exclusion 
Of a learned and conscientious clergy. Thus in Paradise Lost, iv. 193, alluding to Satan, he says : — 
So clomb this first grand thief into God's fold ; 
So since into his church lewd hirelings climb. 



1660-1685.] milton. 247 

Of other care they little reckoning make, 

Than how to scramble at the shearers 1 feast, 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest ! 

Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 120 

That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! 

What recks it them ? What need they? They are s^ed; 

And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw : 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed; 125 

But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing sed : 

But diat two-handed engine at the door 130 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 

Remrn, Alpheus ; the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 

Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks ; 
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 140 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 
The glowing violet, 145 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150 



So, in his sixteenth Sonnet, written in 1652, he supplicates C omwell 
To save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 

Line 124. "Scrannel" is thin, lean, meagre. "A scrannel pipe of straw is contemptuously used for 
Virgil's 'tenuis avena.' " — T. Warton. 

L. 129. "Nothing said." By this Milton clearly alludes to those prelates and clergy of the esta- 
blished church who enjoyed fat salaries without performing any duties: who "sheared the sheep bu: 
did not feed them." 

L. 130, 131. "In these lines our author anticipates the execution of Archbishop Laud by a 'two- 
handed engine,' that is, the axe; insinuating that his death would remove all grievances in religion, 
and complete the reformation of the church." — T. Warton. The sense of the passage is, "But there 
will soon be an end of these evils ; the axe is at hand, to take off the head of him who has been the 
great. abettor of these corruptions of the gospel. This will be done by one stroke." 

L. 133. " That shrunk thy streams," that is, that silenced my pastoral poetry. The Sicilian muse 
is now to return with all her store of rural imagery. "The imagery here is from the noblest 
source." — Brydges. 

L. 13G. "Use," in the sense of to haunt, to inhabit. See Halliwell's "Dictionary of Archaic and 
Provincial Words," 2 vols. 8vo. 

L. 138. " Swart" is swarthy, brown. The do^-star is called the "swart-star," by turning the effect 
into the cause 



245 MILTON. [CHARLES II 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For, so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 

Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

"Wash far away, where'er thy bones are huiTd; 155 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

"Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 

Visit' st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 

"Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 

Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth : 

And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 165 

"Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor : 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
In the bless'd kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 

That sing, and, singing, in their glory move, 180 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more : 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 



Line 154. "Ay me!" "Here," Mr. Dunster observes, "the burst of grief is infinitely beautiful, 
when properly connected with what precedes it and to which it refers." 

L. 158. " Monstrous world," that is, the sea, the world of monsters. 

L. 160. " Bellerus," the name of a Cornish giant. On the southwestern shores of Cornwall there 
Is a stupendous pile of rock-work called the "giant's chair;" and not far from Land's End is another 
most romantic projection of rock called St. Michael's Mount. There was a tradition that the " Vision" 
of St. Michael, seated on this crag, appeared to some hermits. The sense of this line and the follow- 
ing, taken with the preceding, is this:— "Let every flower be strewed on the hearse where Lycidas 
lies, so to flatter ourselves for a moment with the notion that his corpse is present; and this, (ah 
me !) while the seas are wafting it here and there, whether beyond the Hebrides or near the shores 
of Cornwall, &c." 

L. 162. " Namancos" is marked in the early editions of Mercator's Atlas as in Gallicia, on the 
northwest coast of Spain, near Cape Finisterre. Bayona is the strong castle of the French, in the 
aouthwestern extremity of France, near the Pyrenees. In that same atlas this casUe makes a very 
conspicuous figure. 

L. 163. "Here is an apostrophe to the angel Michael, seated on the guarded mount. 'Oh angel, 
look no longer seaward to Namancos and Bayona's hold: rather turn your eyes to another object: 
look homeward or landward; look towards your own coast now, and view with pity the corpse 
of the shipwrecked Lycidas floating thither.' "— T. TVarton. 

L. 181 "And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes."— Isa. xxv. 8; Rev. vii. 17. 



1660-1685.] milton. 249 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 
While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; 
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 

And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190 

And now was dropp'd into the western bay : 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

SCENE FROM COMUS. 1 

A "wild wood. The lady enters. 
Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 
My best guide now : methought it was the sound 
Of riot and ill-managed merriment, 
Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, 
Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, 
When for their teeming flocks and granges full, 
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth 
To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence 
Of such late wassailers ; 2 yet, ! where else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? 



L. 188. By "stops" Milton here means what we now call the holes of a flute or any speciea 
of pipe. 

L. 189. This is a Doric lay, because Theocritus and Moschus had respectively written a bucolic on 
the deaths of Daphnis and Bion. 

1 The fable of Comus is this. A beautiful lady, attended by her two brothers, is journeying through 
a dreary wood. The brothers become separated from their sister, who is met by Comus, the god of 
low pleasures, who, with his followers, holds his orgies in the night. He addresses her in the dis- 
guised character of a peasant, but she resists all his arts, and Comus and his crew are put to flight by 
the brothers, who come in time to rescue their sister. The object of the poem is to show the full 
power of true virtue and chastity to triumph over all the assaults of wickedness ; or, in the language 
of Shakspeare— 

That virtue never will be moved, 

Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven. 
" Comus," says Sir Egerton Bry dges, " is the invention of a beautiful fable, enriched with shadowy 
beings and visionary delights : every line and word is pure poetry, and the sentiments are as exqui- 
site as the images. It is a composition which no pen but Milton's could have produced." It seems 
that an accidental event which occurred to the family of Milton's patron, John Egerton, Earl of 
Bridgewater, then keeping his court at Ludlow castle, gave birth to this fable. The earl's two sons 
and daughter, Lady Alice, were benighted, and lost their way in Hey wood-forest ; and the two bro- 
thers, in the attempt to explore their path, left the sister alone, in a track of country rudely in- 
habited. On these simple facts the poet raised a superstructure of such fairy spells and poetical 
delight as has never since been equalled. 

2 Wassail, from the Anglo-Saxon was heel, " be in health." It was anciently the pledge word in 
drinking, equivalent to the modern "your health." The bowl in which the liquor was presented 
was called the wassail-boivl, and as it was peculiar to scenes of revelry and festivity, the term wassaU 
In time became synonymous with feasting and carousing. Thus, in Shakspeare, Lady Macbeth de- 
clares that she will " convince (that is, overpower) the two chamberlains of Duncan with wine and 
uxusel," and Ben Jonson, giving an account of a rural feast, says : 

The rout of rural folk come thronging in, 
Their rudeness then is thought no sin — 
The jolly xvassel walks the often round, 
And in their cups their cares are drown'd. 



250 MILTON. [CHARLES II 

I cannot halloo to my brothers, but 
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest, 
I'll venture; for my new-enliverfd spirits 
Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off. 

Song. 1 
Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen 
Within thy aery shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green, 
And in the violet-embroider'd vale, 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
O if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave, 
Tell me but where, 
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. 

Enter Comus. 
Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould - 
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? 
Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 
And with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven-down 
Of darkness, till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe Math the sirens three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; 
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, 
And chid her barking waves into attention, 
And fell Charybdis murmur 'd soft applause : 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulfd the sense, 
And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. — I'll speak to her, 
And she shall be my queen. — Hail, foreign wonder ! 2 
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 
Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 
Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan ; by blest song 

1 "The songs of this poem are of a singular felicity; they are unbroken streams of exquisite ima 
pery, either imaginative or descriptive, with a dance of numbers which sounds like aerial music : for 
Justance, the Lady's song to Echo."— Brydges. 

2 " Comus's address to the lady is exceedingly beautiful in every respect ; but all readers will ac- 
knowledge that the style of it is much raised by the expression 'unless the goddess,' an elliptical 
expi'ession, unusual in our language, though common enough in Greek and Latin. But if we were 
to fill it up and say, 'unless thou beest the goddess,' how flat and insipid would it make the coinpo- 
sitiou, compared with what it is." — Lord Monboddo. 



1660-1685.] milton. 251 

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 

Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 
That is address'd to unattending ears ; 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my sever'd company, 
Compelfd me to awake the courteous Echo 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 

Com. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus ? 

Lady. Dim darkness, and this leavie labyrinth. 

Com. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides ? 

Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? 

Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring. 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, lady ? 

Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick return. 

Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 

Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 

Com. Imports their loss, beside the present need ? 

Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom ? 

Lady. As smooth as Hebe"s their unrazor'd lips. 

Com. Two such I saw, what time the labor'd ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came, 
And the swink"d ] hedger at his supper sat ; 
I saw them under a green mantling vine, 
That crawls along the side of yon small hill, 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots : 
Their port was more than human as they stood : 
I took it for a faery vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element, 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
And play in the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck, 
And, as I pass'd, I worshipp'd ; if those you seek, 
It were a journey like the path to heaven, 
To help you find them. 

Lady. Gentle villager, 

What readiest way would bring me to that place ? 

Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, 
In such a scant allowance of star-light, 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood, 
And every bosky bourn from side to side, 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendants be yet lodged, 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the luw-roosted lark 
From her thatch'd pallet rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct you, lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till farther quest. 

1 "Swink'd," i. e. tired, fatigued. 



252 MILTON. 

Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word, 

And trust thy honest oft'er'd courtesy, 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 
With smoky rafters, than in tapestry halls 
And courts of princes, where it first was named, 
And yet is most pretended : in a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. — 
Eye m<% bless'd Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportion^ strength ! — Shepherd, lead on. 

INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 1 

Hail, holy Light ! offspring of heaven first-born, 

Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam, 

May I express thee unblamed? 2 since God is light, 

And never but in unapproached light 

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 

Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream, 3 

Whose fountain who shall tell ? 4 Before the sun, 

Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 

Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 

The rising world of waters dark and deep, 

Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd 

In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight, 

Through utter and through middle darkness borne, 

With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 

I sung of Chaos and eternal Night ; 

Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down 

The dark descent, and up to reascend, 

Though hard and rare : thee I revisit safe, 

And feel thy sovran vital lamp ; but thou 

Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 

So thick a drop serene hath quenclrd their orbs, 

Or dim suffusion veifd. Yet not the more 

Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 

Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 5 

That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, 

Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget 

Those other two equalfd with me in fate, 

So were I equalfd with them in renown, 

1 " This celebrated complaint, with which Milton opens the third book, deserves all the praises 
which have been given it." — Addison. 

2 That is, may I, without blame, call thee the cc-eternai beam of the Eternal God. 

4 Or rather dost thou hear this address, dost thou rather to be called, pure ethereal stream f 

4 As in Job xxxviii. 19, " Where is the way where light dwelleth ?" 

6 Kedron and Siloa. "He still was pleased to study the beauties of the ancient poets, but his high- 
est delight was in the Songs of Sion, in the holy Scriptures, and in these he meditated day and night. 
This ia the sense of the passage stripped of its poetical ornaments."— Newton. 



1GG0-1685.] milton. 253 

Blind Thamyris, and blind Moeonides, 1 

And Tiresias, and Phmeus, prophets old: 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 

Harmonious numbers 1 ; as the wakeful bird 

Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 

Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 

Seasons return ; but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 

Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with a universal blank 

Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 

So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 

Irradiate ; there plant eyes ; all mist from thence 

Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 

Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

Paradise Lost, III. 1. 

eve's account of her creation. 

That day I oft remember, when from sleep 
I first awaked, and found myself reposed, 
Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where 
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. 
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound 
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread 
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved, 
Pure as the expanse of heaven: I thither went 
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down 
On the green bank, to look into the clear 
Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. 
As I bent down to look, just opposite 
A shape within the watery gleam appear'd, 
Bending to look on me : I started back, 
It started back ; but pleased I soon return'd, 
Pleased it return'd as soon, with answering looks 
Of sympathy and love : there I had fix'd 
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, 
Had not a voice thus warn'd me : " What thou seest, 
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself; 
With thee it came and goes ; but follow me, 
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 
Tny coming and thy soft embraces ; he 
Whose image thou art : him thou shaft enjoy 



1 Maeonides is Homer. Thamyris was a Thracian, and invented the Doric mood or measure 
Atresias and Phineus, the former a Theban, the latter a king of Arcadia, were famous blind bards of 
antiquity. Milton uses the word "prophet" in the sense of the Latin vatex, which unites the cha- 
racter of prophet and poet. Indeed, throughout Milton's poetry there are words and phrases perpetu 
ally occurring that are used in their pure Latin sense, the beauties of wliich none but a classical 
scholar can fully appreciate. This, of itself, is a sufficient answer, if there were not a dozen others, 
to the senseless question so often asked, " What is the use of a girl's studying Latin j" 

22 



254 MILTON. [CHARLES LT 

Inseparably thine ; to him shalt bear 

Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd 

Mother of human race." What could I do, 

But follow straight, invisibly thtis led? 

Till I espied thee, fair indeed, and tall, 

Under a platane ; yet, methought, less fair, 

Less winning soft, less amiably mild, 

Than that smooth watery image : back I turn'd ; 

Thou, following, criedst aloud, " Return, fair Eve ; 

Whom fliest thou ? whom thou fliest, of him thou art, 

His flesh, his bone ; to give thee being I lent 

Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 

Substantial life, to have thee by my side 

Henceforth an individual solace dear. 

Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim, 

My other half." With that, thy gentle hand 

Seized mine : I yielded ; and from that time see 

How beauty is excelfd by manly grace, 

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. 

Paradise Lost, TV. 449. 

EVENING IN PARADISE. 

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad : 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, 
Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
Silence was pleased : now glow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
Apparent queen, unveifd her peerless light, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, the hour 
Of night, and all things now retired to rest, 
Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labor and rest, as day and night, to men 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, 
Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines 
Our eyelids ; other creatures all day long 
Rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest : 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
And the regard of heaven on all his ways: 
While other animals unactive range, 
And of their doings God takes no account. 
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
And at our pleasant labor, to reform 
Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green, 
Our walk at, noon, with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop tlnir wanton growth 



1G60-1685.] milton. 255 

Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." 

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd: 
" My author and disposer, what thou bidd"st 
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains. 
God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. 
With thee conversing, I forget all time ; 
All seasons, and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower. 
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild : then silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun 
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, 
9r glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. 
But wherefore all night long shine these ? For whom 
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?" 

To whom our general ancestor replied : 
' Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve, 
Those have their course to finish round the earth 
By morrow evening ; and from land to land 
[n order, though to nations yet unborn, 
Ministering light prepared, they set and rise ; 
Lest total darkness should by night regain 
Her old possession, and extinguish life 
In nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat 
Of various influence, foment and warm, 
Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 
These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none, 
That heaven would want spectators, God want praise: 
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep : 
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
Both day and night. How often, from the steep 
Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
Singing their Great Creator ! oft in bands 



256 MILTON. [CHARLES II 

While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds, 
In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven." 

Thus talking, hand in hand alone they pass'd 
On to their blissful bower : it was a place 
Chosen by the sovran Planter, when he framed 
All things to man's delightful use : the roof 
Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, 
Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew 
Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side 
Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, 
Fenced up the verdant wall ; each beauteous flower, 
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamin, 

Rear'd high their flourish"d heads between, and wrought 
Mosaic ; under- foot the violet, 
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
Broiderd the ground, more color'd than with stone 
Of costliest emblem : other creature here, 
Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none, 
Such was their awe of man! In shadier bower 
More sacred and sequester d, though bnt feign'd, 
Pan or Sylvanus never slept ; nor nymph 
Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess, 
With flowers, garlands, and sweet-smelling herbs, 
Espoused Eve deck'd first her nuptial bed ; 
And heavenly quires the hymenean sung, 
What day the genial angel to our sire 
Brought her, in naked beauty more adored, 
More lovely than Pandora ; whom the gods 
Endow'd with all their gifts ; and, ! too like 
In sad event, when to the un wiser son 
Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared 
Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged 
On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire. 

Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, 
Both turn'd, and under open sky adored 
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, 
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, 
And starry pole : " Thou also madest the night, 
Maker Omnipotent ! and thou the day 
Which we, in our appointed work employ 'd, 
Have finislfd, happy in our mutual help 
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 
Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place, 
For us too large, where thy abundance wants 
Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. 
But thou hast promised from us two a race 
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." 

Paradise Lost, IV. 5M. 



LcrGU-1685.] milton. 257 



Tbe city which thou seest no other deem 
Than great and glorious Rome, queen of the earth, 
So far renowifd, and with the spoils enrich'd 
Of nations : there the Capitol thou seest 
Above the rest lifting his stately head 
On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel 
Impregnable : and there Mount Palatine, 
The imperial palace, compass huge, and high 
The structure, skill of noblest architects. 
With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, 
Turrets and terraces, and glittering spires. 
Many a fair edifice besides, more like 
Houses of gods, (so well I have disposed 
My aery microscope,) thou mayst behold 
Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs, 
Carved work, the hand of famed artificers, 
In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold. 
Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see 
What conflux issuing forth, or entering in ; 
Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces 
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state, 
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power, 
Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings : 
Or embassies from regions far remote 
In various habits, on the Appian road, 
Or on the Emilian ; some from fardiest south, 
Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, 
Meroe Nnotick isle, and, more to west, 
The realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor sea ; 
From the Asian kings, and Parthian among these 5 
From India and the golden Chersonese, 
And utmost Indian isle Taprobane, 
Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreathed ; 
From Gallia, Gades, and the British west ; 
Germans and Scythians, and Sarmathians, north 
Beyond Danubius to the Taurick pool. 

Paradise Regained, IV. 44. 

ATHENS. 

Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount, 
Westward, much nearer by south-west ; behold 
Where on the JEgean shore a city stands, 
Built nobly : pure the air, and light the soil ; 
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts 
And eloquence, native to famous wits, 
Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, 
City, or suburban, studious walks and shades: 

1 Satan, persisting in the temptation of our Lord, shows him imperial Eome in its greatest pomp 
and splendor, and tells him that he might easily expel the Emperor Tiberius, and take possession of 
the whole himself, and thus possess the world. Baffled in this, he next points out to him the cele- 
brated seat of ancient learning, Athens, and its celebrated schools of phUosopny ; pronouncing a 
highly flnished panegyric on the Grecian musicians, poets, orators, and philosophers of the different 
sects 

22* 



258 MILTON. [CHARLES DU 

See there the olive grove of Academe, 

Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird 

Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long ; 

There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound 

Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites 

To studious musing ; there Ilissus rolls 

His whispering stream : within the walls then view 

The schools of ancient sages ; his who bred 

Great Alexander to subdue the world, 

Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next : 

There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power 

Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit 

By voice or hand ; and various-measured verse, 

iEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes, 

And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, 

Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd, 

Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own: 

Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught 

In chorus or iambic, teachers best 

Of moral prudence, with delight received 

In brief sententious precepts, while they treat 

Of fate, and chance, and change in human life ; 

High actions, and high passions best describing : 

Thence to the famous orators repair, 

Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence 

Wielded at will that fierce democratic, 

Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece 

To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne : 

To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear, 

From Heaven descended to the low-roof'd house 

Of Socrates ; see there his tenement, 

Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced 

Wisest of men ; from whose mouth issued forth 

Mellifluous streams, that water'd all the schools 

Of Academics old and new, with those 

Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect 

Epicurean, and the Stoic severe : 

These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home, 

Till time mature thee to a kingdom's weight: 

These rules will render thee a king complete 

Within thyself ; much more with empire join'd. 

Paradise Regained, IV. 130 

samson's lamentation for his blindness. 

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain ! 
Blind among enemies, O worse than chains, 
Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, 
A.nd all her various objects of delight 
Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eased, 
Inferior to the vilest now become 
Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me : 
They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exposed 
To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 
Within doors or without, still as a fool, 



1660-1685.] milton. 2£9 

In power of others, never in my own ; 
Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 
dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 1 
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
Without all hope of day! 
O first-created Beam, and thou great Word, 
" Let there be light, and light was over all ;" 
Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 
The sun to me is dark, 
And silent as the moon, 
When she deserts the night, 
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 
Since light so necessary is to life, 
And almost life itself, if it be true 
That light is in the soul, 
She all in every part ; why was this sight 
To such a tender ball as the eye confined, 
So obvious and so easy to be quench'd 1 
And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused, 
That she might look at will through every pore ? 
Then had I not been thus exiled from light, 
As in the land of darkness, yet in light, 
To live a life half dead, a living death, 
And buried ; but, yet more miserable ! 
Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave ; 
Buried, yet not exempt, 
By privilege of death and burial, 
From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs ; 
But made hereby obnoxious more 
To all the miseries of life, 
Life in captivity 
Among inhuman foes. 

Samson Agonistes, 67. 

SONNET ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. 3 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent 3 which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; 

" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?" 
I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, " God doth noi need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 

1 " Few passages in poetiy are so affecting as this ; and the tone of the expression is peculiarly 
Miltonic." — Brydges. 

2 " Milton's sonnets are, in easy majesty and severe beauty, unequalled by any other compositions 
of the kind."— Rev. Alexander Dyce. " Of all the sonnets of Milton, I am most inclined to prefer that 
'On His Blindness.' It has, to my weak taste, such various excellences as I am unequal to praise 
sumcienUy. It breathes doctrines at once so sublime and consolatory, as to gild the gloomy paths 
of our existence- here with a new and singular light."— Brydges. 

3 He speaks here with allusion to the parable of the talents, Matt, xxv., and with great modesty 
Of himseU. as if he had not five, or two, but only one talent. 



260 MILT02T. [CHAELES II. 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 

Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean •without rest : 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER. 1 

Cyriack, this three years day, these eyes, though clear, 

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; 2 but still bear up and steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 

In liberty's defence, 3 my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
Content though blind, had I no better guide. 

TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. 

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 

Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green, 

And with those few art eminently seen, 
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth ; 
The better part with Mary and with Ruth 

Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween, 

And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 
No anger find in thee but pity and ruth. 

Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends 
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 

And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure, 

Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends 
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, 

Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 

The prose works of Milton 4 are scarcely less remarkable than his poetry. 
They are mostly of a controversial character in Religion and Politics, and, as 
euch, have lost some of the interest with which t'aey were invested in the 

1 Cyriack Skinner was the son of William Skinner, Esq., a merchant of London. Wood says that 
•'he was an ingenious young gentleman, and a scholar to John Milton." 

2 " Of heart or hope," &c. " One of Milton's characteristics was a singular fortitude of mind, 
arising from a consciousness of superior abilities, and a conviction that his cause was just."— Warton. 

3 When Milton had entered upon the labor of writing his "Defence of the People of England," one 
of his eyes was almost gone, and the physicians predicted the loss of both if he proceeded. But he 
sa.ys, " I did not long balance whether my duty should be preferred to my eyes." And yet (proh 
pudor .') this masterly work was, at the Restoration, ordered to be burnt by the common hangman ! 

4 " The summit of fame is occupied by the poet, but the base of the vast elevation may justly be said 
to rest on h.a prose works ; and we invite his admirers to descend from the former, and survey the 
region that lies round about the latter; — a less explored, but not less magnificent domain."— Brydget 

" The prose writings of Milton deserve the attention of every man who wishes to become ac- 
quainted with the full power of the English language. They abound with passages compared with 
which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance."— MacauUxy. 



1660-1685.] milton. 261 

stormy and eventful times in which his lot was cast; but they "breathe 
throughout," says Burnett, " that sublime, ethereal spirit, peculiar only to 
him. We are continually astonished and delighted at his never-failing 
abundance of sentiments and imagery — at that majestic stream and swell 
of thoughts with which his mind always flows. He was a man essen- 
tially great; and whoever wishes to form his language to a lofty and noble 
style — his character to a fervid sincerity of soul, will read the works of 
Milton." 

Milton early commenced his ecclesiastical controversies, and in 1642 
published " The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy." 
The following is a part of the preface of the second book, and is par- 
ticularly remarkable as giving a prophetic assurance of the proudest monu- 
ment of his fame — Paradise Lost. 

MILTON CONSECRATES HIS POWERS TO THE CAUSE OF TRUTH HIS 

STUDIES AND PREPARATION FOR HIS GREAT WORK. 

Surely to every good and peaceable man, it must in nature 
needs be a hateful thing to be the displeaser and molester of thou- 
sands; much better would it like him doubtless to be the messen- 
ger of gladness and contentment, which is his chief intended 
business to all mankind, but that they resist and oppose their own 
happiness. 

But when God commands to take the trumpet and blow a dolo- 
rous or jarring blast, it lies not in man's will what he shall say or 
what he shall conceal. If he shall think to be silent as Jeremiah 
did, because of the reproach and derision he met with daily, "and 
all his familiar friends watched for his halting," to be revenged 
on him for speaking the truth, he would be forced to confess as 
he confessed ; "his word was in my heart as a burning fire shut 
up in my bones ; I was weary with forbearing, and could not 
stay."^ 

Which might teach these times not suddenly to condemn all 
things that are sharply spoken or vehemently written as proceed- 
ing out of stomach virulence and ill-nature; but to consider rather, 
that if the prelates have leave to say the worst that can be said, 
or do the worst that can be done, while they strive to keep to 
themselves, to their great pleasure and commodity, those things 
which they ought to render up, no man can be justly offended 
with him that shall endeavor to impart and bestow, without any 
gain to himself, those sharp and saving words, which would be a 
terror and a torment in him to keep back. 

For me, I have endeavored to lay up as the best treasure and 
solace of a good old age, if God vouchsafe it me, the honest 
liberty of free speech from my youth, where I shall think it avail 
able in so dear a concernment as the church's good. For, if I be, 
whether by disposition, or what other cause, too inquisitive, or 
suspicious of myself and mine own doings, who can help it ? 

Concerning therefore this wayward subject against prelates, the 



262 MILTON. [CHARLES tl. 

touching wherefore is so distasteful and disquietous to a number 
of men ; as by what hath been said I may deserve of charitable 
readers to be credited, that neither envy nor gall hath entered me 
upon this controversy, but the enforcement of conscience only, and 
a preventive fear lest this duty should be against me, when I 
would store up to myself the good provision of peaceful hours ; 
so, lest it should be still imputed to me, as I have found it hath 
been, that some self-pleasing humors of vain-glory hath incited me 
to contest with men of high estimation, now while green years 
are upon my head ; from this needless surmisal I shall hope to 
dissuade the intelligent and equal auditor, if I can but say success- 
fully that which in this exigent behooves me; although I would be 
heard only, if it might be, by the elegant and learned reader, to 
whom principally for a while I shall beg leave I may address 
myself. 

To him it will be no new thing, though I tell him that if I 
hunted after praise, by the estimation of wit and learning, I 
should not write thus out of mine own season, when I have nei- 
ther yet completed to my mind the full circle of my private stu- 
dies, although I complain not of any insufficiency to the matter in 
hand ; or Avere I ready to my wishes, it were a folly to commit 
any thing elaborately composed to the careless and interrupted 
listening of these tumultuous times. * * 

I must say, therefore, that after I had for my first years, by the 
ceaseless diligence and care of my father, (whom God recom- 
pense.) been exercised to the tongues, and some sciences, as my 
age would suffer, by sundry masters and teachers at home and at 
the school, it was found, that whether aught was imposed me by 
them that had the overlooking, or betaken to of my own choice in 
English, or other tongue, prosing or versing, but chiefly this latter, 
the style, by certain vital signs it had, was likely to live. 

But much latelier in the private academies of Italy, whither I 
was favored to resort, perceiving that some trifles which I had in 
memory, composed at under twenty or thereabout, (for the man- 
ner is, that every one must give some proof of his wit and read- 
ing there,) met with acceptance above what was looked for ; and 
other things, which I had shifted in scarcity of books and conve- 
niences to pack up amongst them, were received with written 
encomiums, which the Italian is not forward to bestow on men of 
this side the Alps ; I began thus far to assent both to them and 
divers of my friends here at home, and not less to an inward 
prompting, which now grew daily upon me, that with labor and 
intense stud}^, (which I take to be my portion in this life,) joined 
with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave 
sonit'thing so written to aftertimes, as they should not willingly let 
it die. 



1660-1685.] Milton 263 

These thoughts at once possessed me; and these other, that if 1 
were certain to write as men buy leases, for three lives and down- 
ward, there ought no regard be sooner had, than to God's glory, 
by the honor and instruction of my country. 

For which cause, and not only for that I knew it would be hard 
to arrive at the second rank among the Latins, I applied myself 
to that resolution which Ariosto followed against the persuasions 
of Bembo, to fix all the industry and art I could unite to the adorn- 
ing of my native tongue ; not to make verbal curiosities the end, 
(that were a toilsome vanity,) but to be an interpreter and re later 
of the best and sagest things, among mine own citizens through- 
out this island in the mother dialect : that, what the greatest and 
choicest wits of Athens, Rome, or modern Italy, and those He- 
brews of old, did for their country, I, in my proportion, with this 
over and above, of being a Christian, might do for mine; not car- 
ing .to be once named abroad, though perhaps I could attain to 
that ; but content with these British islands as my world ; whose 
fortune hath hitherto been, that, if the Athenians, as some say, 
made their small deeds great and renowned by their eloquent 
writers, England hath had her noble achievements made small by 
the unskilful handling of monks and mechanics. 

Time serves not now, and perhaps I might seem too profuse to 
give any certain account of what the mind at home, in the spacious 
circuits of her musing, hath liberty to propose to herself, 1 though 
of highest hope and hardest attempting ; whether that epic form 
whereof the two poems of Homer, and those other two of Virgil 
and Tasso, are a diffuse, and the Book of Job a brief model ; — or 
whether the rules of Aristotle herein are strictly to be kept, or 
nature to be followed, which in them that show art, and use judg- 
ment, is no transgression, but an enriching of art : or, lastly, what 
king, or knight, before the Conquest, might be chosen in whom to 
lay the pattern of a Christian hero. 

And, as Tasso gave to a prince of Italy his choice, whether he 
would command him to write of Godfrey's expedition against the 
infidels, or Belisarius against the Goths, or Charlemagne against 
the Lombards ; if to the instinct of nature and emboldening of 
art aught may be trusted, and there be nothing adverse in our cli- 
mate or the fate of this age, it haply would be no rashness, from 
an equal diligence and inclination, to present the like offer in 
our own ancient stories ; or whether those dramatic compositions, 
wherein Sophocles and Euripides reign, shall be found more doc- 
trinal and exemplary to a nation. 

The Scripture also affords us a divine pastoral drama in the 
" Song of Solomon," consisting of two persons, and a double cho- 

1 Here is evidence ol his first conceptions of his immortal Epic. 



2C4 MILTON. [CHARLES II. 

rus, as Origen rightly judges : and the "Apocalypse" of St. John 
is the majestic image of a high and stately tragedy, shutting up 
and intermingling her solemn scenes and acts with a sevenfold 
chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies ; and this, my 
opinion, the grave authority of Pareeus, commenting that book, is 
sufficient to confirm, 

Or, if occasion shall lead to imitate those magnific odes and 
hymns, wherein Pindar us and Callimachus are, in most things, 
worthy; some others in their frame judicious, in their matter most 
an end faulty. 

But those frequent songs throughout the law and prophets, be- 
yond all these, not in their divine arguments alone, but in the very 
critical art of composition, may be easily made appear over all 
kinds of lyric poesy to be incomparable. 

These abilities, 1 wheresoever they be found, are the inspired 
gift of God, rarely bestowed, but yet to some, though most abused, 
in every nation ; and are of power, beside the office of a pulpit, 
to imbreed and cherish in a great people the seeds of virtue and 
public civility ; to allay the perturbations of the mind, and set the 
affections in right tune ; to celebrate in glorious and lofty hymns 
the throne and equipage of God's almightiness, and what he 
works, and what he suffers to be wrought with high providence 
in his church ; to sing victorious agonies of martyrs and saints, 
the deeds and triumphs of just and pious nations, doing valiantly 
through faith against the enemies of Christ ; to deplore the gene- 
ral relapses of kingdoms and states from justice and God's true 
worship. 

Lastly, whatsoever in religion is holy and sublime ; in virtue 
amiable or grave ; whatsoever hath passion or admiration in all 
the changes of that which is called fortune from without, or the 
wily subtleties and refluxes of man's thoughts from within ; all 
these things with a solid and treatable smoothness to paint out 
and describe : tracking over the whole book of sanctity and vir- 
tue, through all the instances of example, with such delight to 
those especially of soft and deliciou^ temper, who will not so much 
as look upon truth herself, unless they see her elegantly dressed; 
that, whereas the paths of honesty and good life appear now 
rugged and difficult, though they be indeed easy and pleasant, 
they will then appear to all men both easy and pleasant, though 
they were rugged and difficult indeed. 

And what a benefit this would be to our youth and gentry, may 
be soon guessed by what we know of the corruption and bane, 
which they suck in daily from the writings and interludes of libi- 
dmous and ignorant poetasters, who having scarce ever heard of 

1 To me, this has ever seemed the loftiest paragraph in English prose literature 



1660-1685.] milton. 265 

that which is the main consistence of a true poem, the choice of 
such persons as they ought to introduce, and what is moral and 
decent to each one; do for the most part lay up vicious principles 
in sweet pills to be swallowed down, and make the taste of virtu- 
ous documents harsh and sour. * * 

Neither do I think it shame to covenant with my knowing 
reader, that for some few years yet, I may go on trust with him 
toward the payment of what I am now indebted ; as being a work 
not to be raised from the heat of youth, or the vapours of wine, 
like that which flows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amorist, 
or the trencher fury of a rhyming parasite ; nor to be obtained 
from the invocation of dame Memory and her siren daughters ; 
but by devout prayer to that eternal Spirit, 1 who can enrich with 
all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim with the 
hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he 
pleases. 

To this must be added industrious and select reading, steady 
observation, insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs ; 
till which in some measure be compassed, at my own peril and 
cost, I refuse not to sustain this expectation from as many as are 
jiot loath to hazard so much credulity upon the best pledges that I 
can give them. 

ARGUMENT FOR THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 

Lest some should persuade ye, Lords and Commons, that these 
arguments of learned men's discouragement at this your order 
are mere flourishes, and not real, I could recount what I have 
seen and heard in other countries, where this kind of inquisition 
tyrannizes ; when I have sat among their learned men, (for that 
honor I had,) and been counted happy to be born in such a place 
of philosophic freedom, as they supposed England was, while 
themselves did nothing but bemoan the servile condition into which 
learning amongst them was brought ; that this was it which had 
damped the glory of Italian wits ; that nothing had been there 
written now these many years but flattery and fustian. There it 
was that I found and visited the famous Galileo, grown old, a pri- 
soner to the inquisition, for thinking in astronomy otherwise than 
the Franciscan and Dominican licensers thought. And though I 
knew that England then was groaning loudest under the prelatical 
yoke, nevertheless I took it as a pledge of future happiness that 
other nations were so persuaded of her liberty. Yet it was be 
yond my hope that those worthies were then breathing in her air, 

1 " And chiefly thou, O Spirit that dost prefer 
Before all temples th' upright heart and pure, 
Instruct me."— Paradise Lost, i. 17. 

23 



266 MILTON. [CHARLES II. 

who should be her leaders to such a deliverance, as shall never be 
forgotten by any revolution of time that this world hath to finish. 

ENGLAND AND LONDON. 

Lords and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is 
whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors : a nation not 
slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute 
to invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach 
of any point the highest that human capacity can soar to. 
Therefore the studies of learning in her deepest sciences hafe 
been so ancient and so eminent among us, that writers of good 
antiquity and able judgment have been persuaded that even the 
school of Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took beginning from 
the old philosophy of this island. And that wise and civil Roman, 
Julius Agricola, who governed once here for Caesar, preferred the 
natural wits of Britain, before the labored studies of the French. 
Behold now this vast city ; a city of refuge, the mansion-house of 
liberty, encompassed and surrounded with his protection; the 
shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers waking, to 
fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in defence 
of beleaguered truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting 
by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions 
and ideas, wherewith to present, as with their homage and their 
fealty, the approaching reformation ; others as fast reading, trying 
all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement. What 
could a man require more from a nation so pliant and so prone to 
seek after knowledge ? What wants there to such a towardly 
and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful laborers, to make a know- 
ing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies ? we 
reckon more than five months yet to harvest ; there need not be 
five weeks, had we but eyes to lift up ; the fields are white already. 

REFORM. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing 
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible 
locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle muing her mighty youth, 
and kindling her dazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging 
and unsealing her long abused sight at the fountain itself of hea- 
venly radiance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking 
birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed 
at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosti- 
cate a year of sects and schisms. 

Error supports custom, custom countenances error : and these 
two between them would persecute and chase away all truth and 
solid wisdom out of human life, were it not that God, rather than 
•nan. once in many ages calls together the prudent and religious 



1660-1685.] milton. 267 

counsels of men, deputed to repress the encroachments, and to 
work off the inveterate blots and obscurities wrought upon our 
minds by the subtle insinuating of error and custom ; who, with 
the numerous and vulgar train of their followers, make it their 
chief design to envy and cry down the industry of free reasoning 
under the terms of humor and innovation ; as if the womb of 
teeming Truth were to be closed up, if she presumed to bring 
forth aught that sorts not with their unchewed notions and sup- 
positions. 

THE ALL-CONQUERING POWER OF TRUTH. 

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon 
the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing 
and prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood 
grapple : who ever knew Truth put to the worst in a free and 
open encounter ? Her confuting is the best and surest suppress- 
ing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clear 
knowledge to be sent down among us, would think of other mat- 
ters to be constituted beyond the discipline of Geneva, framed and 
iabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new life which we 
beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it 
come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, 
when as we are exhorted by the wise man to use diligence, " to 
seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that an- 
other order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute ! When 
a man hath been laboring the hardest labor in the deep mines of 
knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, 
drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and 
defeated all objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the 
plain, offers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only 
that he may try the matter by dint of argument ; for his oppo- 
nents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge 
of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor 
enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars 
of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the 
Almighty ? She needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings. 
to make her victorious ; those are the shifts and the defences that 
error uses against her power ; give her but room, and do not bind 
her when she sleeps. 1 

1 Were half the power that fills the world with terroi, 
Were half the wealth, bestow'd on camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts ! 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against its brother, on its forehead 

WoiiM wear forevermore the curse of Cain. — Longfellow. 



268 MILTON". [CHARLES II. 

THE POET'S MORNING. 

My morning haunts are, where they should be, at home ; not 
sleeping, or concocting the surfeits of an irregular feast, 1 but up 
and stirring ; in winter, often ere the sound of any bell awake 
men to labor or to devotion ; in summer, as oft with the bird that 
first rises, or not much tardier, to read good authors, or cause them 
to be read till the attention be weary, or memory have its full 
freight. 

I cannot but here give the conclusion of the Life of Milton by Dr. Sym- 
mons, the learned editor of his prose works : — « We have now completed the 
history of John Milton, — a man in whom were illustriously combined all the 
qualities that could adorn, or could elevate the nature to which he belonged ; 
— a man, who at once possessed beauty of countenance, symmetry of form, 
elegance of manners, benevolence of temper, magnanimity and loftiness of 
soul, the brightest illumination of intellect, knowledge the most various and 
extended, virtue that never loitered in her career, nor deviated from her 
course ; — a man, who, if he had been delegated as the representative of his 
species to one of the superior worlds, would have suggested a grand idea of 
the human race, as of beings affluent in moral and intellectual treasure — 
raised and distinguished in the universe, as die favorites and heirs of heaven." 

To these, I must add the remarks of Sir Egerton Brydges, no less beautiful 
than just: — " He had not only every requisite of the Muse; but every one of 
the highest order, and in the highest degree. His invention of poetical fable, 
and poetical imagery, was exhaustless, and always grand, and always con- 
sistent with the faith of a cultivated and sensitive mind. Sublimity was his 
primary and unfailing power. His characters were new, surprising, gigantic, 
or beautiful ; and full of instruction, such as high wisdom sanctioned. His 
sentiments were lofty, comprehensive, eloquent, consistent, holy, original; 
and an amalgamation of spirit, religion, intellect, and marvellous learning. 
His language was his own: sometimes a little rough and unvernacular ; but 
as magnificent as his mind : of pregnant thought ; naked in its strength ; rich 
and picturesque, where imagery was required; often exquisitely harmonious, 
where the occasion permitted, but sometimes strong, mighty, and speaking 
with the voice of thunder." 

When to these lofty and most richly deserved encomiums, we add that in 
moral character he stands among the noblest and die best; that his spirit was 
as holy, and his heart as sanctified as his writings ; and that he so spent his 
mighty strength in the holy cause of liberty, and for the best good of man, 
that he sat in darkness " amid the blaze of noon," who can hesitate to place 

him AT THE HEAD OF THE RACE ! 

1 Dr. Symmons, in his Life of Milton, says, " Abstinence in diet was one of Milton's favorite vir- 
tues; which he practised invariably through life, and availed himself of every opportunity to recom 
mend in his writings." 

O madness ! to think use of strongest wines 

And strongest drinks our chief support of health, 

When God, with these forbidden, made choice to rear 

His mighty champion, strong above compare, 

Whose drink was only from the liquid brook. — Scmsoi Agonisteu 



1660-1685.] EARL OF CLARENDON. 269 



EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON. 1608—1674. 

1 he life of the celebrated Earl of Clarendon is so intimately connectei I witli 
the eventful times of Charles I., the Commonwealth, and the Restoration, that 
it would be impossible to give any thing more than a meagre outline of it in 
the limits to which these biographical sketches are necessarily confined. 1 He 
was born at Dinton, in Wiltshire, in 1608, and at the age of fourteen entered 
Oxford. After leaving the university he applied himself to the study of the 
law, but his father dying soon after, and leaving him in the possession of a 
competent fortune, it was not necessary for him to exert himself for support 
in the line of his profession. He therefore turned his attention to politics, 
and in 1640 was elected a member of parliament. Here he took the side of 
the royalists, and had the celebrated Hampden for one of his opponents. 
From the zeal and ability which he showed in the royal cause, he soon be- 
came one of the king's chief advisers, and in 1643 he was made chancellor 
of the exchequer, and was sworn a member of the privy council. 

From this time the affairs of the royal party became daily more desperate, 
and it being deemed best for the prince (afterwards Charles II.) to fly from 
the kingdom, Hyde accompanied him to the island of Jersey. Thence, the 
prince went to France, but Hyde remained, and there commenced his cele- 
brated work, his Ci History of the Rebellion." Upon the execution of the king, 
he went to the continent, living first at Madrid, and afterwards at Antwerp. 
Here, with other members of the exiled court, he suffered much from pecu- 
niary distress, having, as he said, " neither clothes nor fire to preserve me 
from the sharpness of the season." He continued to be the chief adviser of 
the exiled king, and was rewarded by him with the appointment of lord 
chancellor ; an empty title, as the king was then situated, but soon to be one 
of substantial value; for, in June, 1660, soon after the triumphal entry of 
Charles II. into London, Hyde took his seat as speaker of the House of Lords, 
and on the same day he sat in the court of Chancery. 

He continued to be the principal conductor of public affairs ; but such was 
the condition of the kingdom in politics, both foreign and domestic, the po- 
verty of the exchequer, the difficulty of raising supplies, the profligacy of the 
court, and the king's absolute neglect of business on the one hand, and the 
relation of England to foreign powers, and the Dutch war, on the other, that 
he had difficulties of no ordinary magnitude to contend with. Discontent 
reigned through the country, and the public heaped upon Clarendon the odium 
of every measure and event. To such a height did feelings of anger and dis- 
gust at length reach, that articles of impeachment were drawn up against 
him by the Commons, and as a compromise he agreed to leave the kingdom. 
He sailed with his family for Calais, November 29, 1667, and rer'ded in 
various places in France. In 1674 he took a house at Rouen, which was his 
last residence. Repeated attacks of the gout had enfeebled his frame and 
constimtion, and he died on the 9th of December, 1674, in the sixty-fifth year 
cf his age. His body was taken to England, and interred in Westminstei 
Abbey. 

The principal literary work of Lord Clarendon, is his "History of the Re 

1 For full information concerning Lord Clarendon, consult Lister's "Life of Clarendon;" " LiJf. 
of Lord Clarendon, written by himself;" Burnet's "History of his own Times ;" Campbell's "Lives 
of the Chancellors;" Hallam's " Constitutional History of England;!' and "Edinburgh Review," 

Xhiii. 150. 

23* 



270 EARL OF CLARENDON. [CHARLES II. 

bellion ;'' for such was the epithet bestowed by the royalists upon that civil 
war which brought Charles I. to the block. 1 It was commenced, as before 
remarked, in 1646, in the island of Jersey, and finished at Moulins (France) 
in 1672-73, while the author was in banishment. 2 The Edinburgh Review 
says " it is one of the noblest historical works in the English language." Some 
allowance, however, must, in many cases, be made for the strong partisan 
feelings of the writer; though it is due to him to say, that, considering his 
position, and the times in which he wrote, his work is characterized by justice 
and impartiality. Its distinguishing excellence consists in its lively and ac- 
curate delineations of character. Of these we select the following: — 

JOHN HAMPDEN. 3 

Mr. Hampden was a man of much greater cunning, and it may 
be, of the most discerning spirit, and of the greatest address and 
insinuation to bring any thing to pass which he desired, of any 
man of that time, and who kid the design deepest. He was a 
gentleman of a good extraction, and a fair fortune ; who, from a 
life of great pleasure and license, had on a sudden retired to ex- 
traordinary sobriety and strictness, and yet retained his usual 
cheerfulness and affability ; which, together with the opinion of 
his wisdom and justice, and the courage he had showed in oppos- 
ing the ship-money, raised his reputation to a very great height, 
not only in Buckinghamshire, where he lived, but generally 
throughout the kingdom. He was not a man of many words, and 
rarely begun the discourse, or made the first entrance upon any 
business that was assumed; but a very weighty speaker ; and 
after he had heard a full debate, and observed how the house was 

1 The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other malefactors against whom overwhelming 
evidence is produced, generally decline all controversy about the facts, and content themselves with 
calling testimony to character. He had so many private virtues 1 And had James II. no private 
virtues ? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to Charles ? A religious zeal, not more sin- 
cere than that of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few of the ordinary house- 
hold decencies which half the tombstones in England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good 
father 1 A good husband ! — Ample apologies, indeed, for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny, and 
falsehood. 

"For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the phrase, a good man but a bad king. We 
can as easily conceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a good man and a treacherous friend. 
We cannot, in estimating the character of an individual, leave out of our consideration his conduct in 
the most important of all human relations. And if, in that relation, we find him to have been selfish, 
cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance ai 
table, and all his regularity at Chapel." — Edinburgh Review, xlii. 324. 

2 The best edition of it is that of Oxford, 1826, 8 vols. 8vo, with the notes of Bishop Warburton. 

8 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood.— Gray. 
It must be remembered that thi3 character of the heroic and venerated champion of English liberty 
was given by one of the opposite party: yet even by him his unrivalled superiority is unquestioned. 
Clarendon had measured strength with him in parliament, and therefore speaks from personal 
knowledge. It will be remembered that Hampden was mortally wounded in a skirmish with Prince 
Hupcrt, at Chalgrove, Oxfordshire, June 18, 1643, in his forty-ninth year, and in the dawn of his publio 
lj«fc and character. Clarendon says that his death was as great a cpnsternation to all his party 
as if their whole army had been defeated. 



1660-1685.] EARL OF CLARENDON, 271 

like to be inclined, took up the argument, and shortly, and clearly, 
and craftily so stated it, that he commonly conducted it to the con- 
clusion he desired ; and if he found he could not do that, he was 
never without the dexterity to divert the debate to another time, 
and to prevent the determining any thing in the negative, which 
might prove inconvenient in the future. He made so great a 
show of civility, and modesty, and humility, and always of mis- 
trusting his own judgment, and esteeming his with whom he con- 
ferred for the present, that he seemed to have no opinions or 
resolutions, but such as he contracted from the information and 
instruction he received upon the discourses of others ; whom he 
had a wonderful art of governing, and leading into his principles 
and inclinations, whilst they believed that he wholly depended 
upon their counsel and advice. No man had ever a greater 
power over himself, or was less the man that he seemed to be ; 
which shortly after appeared to everybody, when he cared less to 
keep on the mask. ***** 

He was rather of reputation in his own country, than of public 
discourse, or fame in the kingdom, before the business of ship- 
money ; but then he grew the argument of all tongues, every man 
inquiring who and what he was, that durst, at his own charge, 
support the liberty and property of the kingdom, and rescue his 
country, as he thought, from being made a prey to the court. 
His carriage, throughout this agitation, was with that rare temper 
and modesty, that they who watched him narrowly to find some 
advantage against his person, to make him less resolute in his 
cause, were compelled to give him a just testimony. He was of 
that rare affability and temper in debate, and of that seeming hu- 
mility and submission of judgment, as if he brought no opinion of 
his own with him, but a desire of information and instruction ; 
yet he had so subtle a way of interrogating, and under the notion 
of doubts, insinuating his objections, that he infused his own opi- 
nions into those from whom he pretended to learn and receive them. 
And even with them who were able to preserve themselves from 
his infusions, and discerned those opinions to be fixed in him, with 
which they could not comply, he always left the character of an 
ingenious and conscientious person. He was, indeed, a very wise 
man, and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute 
spirit of popularity, and the most absolute faculties to govern the 
people, of any man I ever knew. 

In the first entrance into the troubles, he undertook the com- 
mand of a regiment of foot, and performed the duty of a colonel, 
upon all occasions, most punctually. He was very temperate in 
diet, and a supreme governor over all his passions and affections 
and had thereby a great power over other men's. He was of an 
industry and vigilance not to be tired out, or wearied by the mosi 



272 EARL OF CLARENDON. [CHARLES II. 

laborious ; and of parts not to be imposed upon by the subtle or 
sharp ; and of a personal courage equal to his best parts : so that 
he was an enemy not to be wished, wherever he might have been 
made a friend ; and as much to be apprehended where he was so, 
as any man could deserve to be. And therefore his death was no 
less pleasing to the one party, than it was condoled in the other. 

LORD FALKLAND. 1 

In this unhappy battle was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland ; a 
person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that 
inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing 
and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that 
primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no 
other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that 
single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. 

He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts, in 
any man ; and if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a 
most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his 
fortune ; of which, in those administrations, he was such a dis- 
penser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there 
had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been 
thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in what- 
soever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied bv any pains that 
were necessary to that end. And, therefore, having once resolved 
not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had 
perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in 
the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that 
it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, 
and accurately read all the Greek historians. 

In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles 
of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most 
polite and accurate men of that university ; who found such an 
immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so 
infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a 
vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in any thing, yet such 
an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they fre- 
quently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a 
purer air ; so that his house was a university in a less volume, 
whither they came not so much for repose as study ; and to ex- 
amine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and 
consent made current in vulgar conversation * * * 

He was superior to all those passions and affections which at- 
tend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of 
knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men ; and that 

1 He was killed September 20, 1643, at Newbury, in the battle between the parliament forces under 
the Kan of *'ssex, and the royalists commanded by Prince Rupert. 



1660-1685.] EARL OE CLARENDON. 273 

made him too much a contemner of those arts, which must he in- 
dulged in the transactions of human affairs. 

The great opinion he had of the uprightness and integrity of 
those persons who appeared most active, especially of Mr. Hamp- 
den, kept him longer from suspecting any design against the 
peace of the kingdom ; and though he differed from them com- 
monly in conclusion, he believed long their purposes were honest. 
When he grew better informed what was law, and discerned in 
them a desire to control that law by a vote of one or both houses, 
no man more opposed those attempts, and gave the adverse party 
more trouble by reason and argumentation ; insomuch as he was, 
by degrees, looked upon as an advocate for the court ; to which 
he contributed so little, that he declined those addresses, and even 
those invitations which he was obliged almost by civility to enter- 
tain. And he was so jealous of the least imagination that he 
should incline to preferment, that he affected even a moroseness 
to the court, and to the courtiers ; and left nothing undone which 
might prevent and divert the king's or queen's favor towards him, 
but the deserving it. * * * 

When there was any overture,, or hope of peace, he would be 
more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press any 
thing which he thought might promote it ; and sitting among his 
friends, often after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with 
a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word Peace, Peace ; and 
would passionately profess, " that the very agony of the war, and 
the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and 
must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break 
his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, " that he 
was so much enamored of peace, that he would have been glad 
the king should have bought it at any price ;" which was a most 
unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most 
punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon 
conscience or honor, could have wished the king to have com- 
mitted a trespass against either. * * * 

In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was 
very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord 
Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had 
lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers ; from whence he 
was shot with a musket, in the lower part of the belly, and in the 
instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next 
morning ; till when, there was some hope he might have been a 
prisoner ; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, re- 
ceived small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that in- 
comparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, 
having so much dispatched the true business of life, that the eldest 
rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter 



274 HALE. [CHARLES II. 

not into the world with more innocency. Whosoever leads such a 
life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken 
from him. 



SIR MATTHEW HALE. 1609—1676. 

Sir. Matthew Hale, one of the most upright judges that ever sat upon 
ihe English bench, was born at Alderly, in the county of Gloucester, in 1609. 
His parents dying when he was quite young, he was educated by a Puritan 
clergyman, and entered Oxford at the age of seventeen. After leaving the 
university he applied himself to the study of the law with great assiduity, 
and was called to the bar a few years previous to the commencement of the 
civil war. In the subsequent contests that shook the nation, Hale preserved 
a perfect neutrality, which was certainly favorable to his interests as an advo- 
cate. But how far it is manly and right, in times of great political agitation, 
for a citizen to study his own individual quiet and interests, instead of throw- 
ing the whole weight of his influence upon that cause which he deems the 
most just, is very questionable. 

Hale received a commission from Charles I., and after the execution of 
that monarch, he was made, under Cromwell, one of the judges of the Com- 
mon Bench, the duties of which office he discharged with consummate skill 
and the strictest impartiality. After the death of Cromwell he was a member 
of the parliament which recalled Charles II., and in the year of the Restora- 
tion he was knighted. In 1671 he was raised to the chief-justiceship of the 
King's Bench, where he presided with great honor to himself and advantage 
to the public till 1675, when the state of his health obliged him to resign. He 
died from dropsy on Christmas day of the following year, 1676. 

It is not necessary to speak more fully of his character here, as in a sub- 
sequent page will be found Baxter's admirable sketch of it. 1 The only spot 
upon his judicial reputation, is his having condemned two old women for 
"witchcraft. This he did with the most sincere belief that he was doing right 
And how many other men, eminent for their piety, were also carried away 
by that delusion in the middle of the seventeenth century, not only in Eng- 
land, but in this country ! 2 

1 Lord Erskine, in an eloquent speech in the Court of the King's Bench, upon the trial of Williams, 
for publishing Paine's "Age of Reason," 1797, thus addresses the jury:— "Gentlemen, In the place 
where we now sit to administer the justice of this great country, above a century ago the never-to- 
be-forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided; whose faith in Christianity is an exalted commentary upon 
Its truth and reason, and whose life was a glorious example of its fruits in man, administering 
human justice with a wisdom and purity drawn from the pure fountain of the Christian dispensa- 
tion, which has been, and will be in all ages, a subject of the highest reverence and admiration." 

Cowper, coo, in the third book of the Task, thus beautifully speaks of him, as one 

"In whom 
Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, 
And sound integrity not more, than famed 
For sanctity of manners undeflled." 

2 The fact of witcncraft wa3 admitted by Lord Bacon and Mr. Addison. Dr. Johnson more than 
inclined to the same side of the question ; and Sir William Blackstone quite frowns on opposers of 
this doctrine. The severe charges, therefore, which have been brought against the people of Saleuv 
Mass.. lie equally against the most learned, pious, and eminent of mankind. 



1660-1685.] hale. 275 

Sir Matthew Hale wrote a number of works of a legal character, but that 
by which he is best known is his " Contemplations, moral and divine, and 
Letters to his Children." An edition of this, with his life, was published by 
Bishop Burnet, in three volumes. As a specimen of his style, we give the 
following admirable letter of advice to his children 

UPON REGULATING THEIR CONVERSATION. 

Dear Children — I thank God I came well to Farrington this 
day, about five o'clock. And as I have some leisure time at my 
inn, I cannot spend it more to my own satisfaction and your bene- 
fit, than, by a letter, to give you some good counsel. The subject 
shall be concerning your speech ; because much of the good or 
evil that befalls persons arises from the well or ill managing of 
their conversation. When I have leisure and opportunity, I shall 
give you my directions on other subjects. 

Never speak any thing for a truth which you know or believe 
to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a 
tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offence 
against humanity itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, 
there can be no safe society between man and man. And it is 
an injury to the speaker; for, besides the disgrace which it brings 
upon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can 
scarcely tell truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no color of 
necessity for it ; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as 
other people cannot believe he speaks truth, so he himself scarcely 
knows when he tells a falsehood. 

As you must be careful not to lie, so you must avoid coming 
near it. You must not equivocate, nor speak any thing positively 
for which you have no authority but report, or conjecture, or 
opinion. 

Let your words be few, especially when your superiors or 
strangers are present, lest you betray your own weakness, and 
rob yourselves of the opportunity which you might otherwise 
have had, to gain knowledge, wisdom, and experience, by hearing 
those whom you silence by your impertinent talking. 

Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence 
your opponent with reason, not with noise. 

Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking; hear 
him out, and you will understand him the better, and be able to 
give him the better answer. 

Consider before you speak, especially when the business is of 
moment ; weigh the sense of what you mean 10 utter, and the 
expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, perti- 
nent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they 
speak ; or they speak, and then think. 

Some men excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in 



276 HALE. [CHARLES II. 

mathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where 
the skill or excellence of any person lies ; put him upon talking 
on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in your memory, 
or commit it to writing. By this means you will glean the worth 
and knowledge of everybody you converse with ; and at an easy 
rate acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions. 

When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent per- 
sons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious 
both in your conversation with them and in your general behavior, 
that you may avoid their errors. 

If any one, whom you do not know to be a person of truth, so- 
briety, and weight, relates strange stories, be not too ready to 
believe or report them; and yet (unless he is one of your familiar 
acquaintances) be not too forward to contradict him. If the occa- 
sion requires you to declare your opinion, do it modestly and gen- 
tly, not bluntly nor coarsely ; by this means you will avoid giving 
offence, or being abused for too much credulity. 

If a man, whose integrity you do not very well know, makes 
you great and extraordinary professions, do not give much credit 
to him. Probably you will find that he aims at something besides 
kindness to you, and that when he has served his turn, or been 
disappointed, his regard for you will grow cool. 

Beware also of him who natters you, and commends you to 
your face, or to one who he thinks will tell you of it ; most proba- 
bly he has either deceived and abused you, or means to do so. 
Remember the fable of the fox commending the singing of the 
crow, who had something in her mouth which the fox wanted. 

Be careful that you do not commend yourselves. It is a sign 
that your reputation is small and sinking, if your own tongue 
must praise you ; and it is fulsome and unpleasing to others to 
hear such commendations. 

Speak well of the absent whenever you have a suitable oppor- 
tunity. Never speak ill of them, or of anybody, unless you are 
sure they deserve it, and unless it is necessary for their amend- 
ment, or for the safety and benefit of others. 

Avoid, in your ordinary communications, not only oaths, but all 
imprecations and earnest protestations. 

Forbear scoffing and jesting at the condition or natural defects 
of any person. Such offences leave a deep impression ; and they 
often cost a man dear. 

Be very careful that you give no reproachful, menacing, or 
spiteful words to any person. Good words make friends ; bad 
words make enemies. It is great prudence to gain as many 
friends as we honestly can, especially when it may be done at so 
easy a rate as a good word ; and it is great folly to make an enemy 
by ill words, which are of no advantage to the party who uses 



1660-1685.] hale. 277 

them. When faults are committed, they may. and by a superior 
they must, be reproved : but let it be done without reproach or 
bitterness; otherwise it will lose its due end and use, and, instead 
of reforming the offence, it will exasperate the offender, and lay 
the reprover justly open to reproof. 

If a person be passionate, and give you ill language, rather pity 
him than be moved to anger. You will find that silence, or very 
gentle words, are the most exquisite revenge for reproaches ; they 
will either cure the distemper in the angry man, and make him sorry 
for his passion, or they will be a severe reproof and punishment to 
him. But, at any rate, they will preserve your innocence, give 
you the deserved reputation of wisdom and moderation, and keep 
up the serenity and composure of your mind. Passion and anger 
make a man unfit for every thing that becomes him as a man or 
as a Christian. 

Never utter any profane speeches, nor make a jest of any Scrip- 
ture expressions. When you pronounce the name of God or of 
Christ, or repeat any passages or words of Holy Scripture, do 
it with reverence and seriousness, and not lightly, for that is 
" taking the name of God in vain." 

If you hear of any unseemly expressions used in religious ex- 
ercises, do not publish them ; endeavor to forget them ; or, if you 
mention them at all, let it be with pity and sorrow, not with deri- 
sion or reproach. 

Read these directions often ; think of them seriously ; and prac- 
tise them diligently. You will find them useful in your conver- 
sation ; which will be every day the more evident to you, as your 
judgment, understanding, and experience increase. 

I have little further to add, at this time, but my wish and com- 
mand that you will remember the former counsels that I have fre 
quently given you. Begin and end the day with private prayer; 
read the Scriptures often and seriously ; be attentive to the public 
worship of God. Keep yourselves in some useful employment ; 
for idleness is the nursery of vain and sinful thoughts, which cor- 
rupt the mind, and disorder the life. Be kind and loving to one 
another. Honor your minister. Be not bitter nor harsh to my 
servants. Be respectful to all. Bear my absence patiently and 
cheerfully. Behave as if I were present among you and saw you. 
Remember, you have a greater Father than I am, who always, 
and in all places, beholds you, and knows your hearts and 
thoughts. Study to requite my love and care for you with duti- 
fulness, observance, and obedience ; and account it an honor that 
you have an opportunity, by your attention, faithfulness, and in- 
dustry, to pay some part of that debt which, by the laws of nature 
and of gratitude, you owe to me. Be frugal in my family, but let 
there be no want ; and provide conveniently for the poor. 

24 



278 BARROW. [CHARLES II. 

I pray God to fill your hearts with his grace, fear, and love, 
and to let you see the comfort and advantage of serving him ; and 
that his blessing, and presence, and direction may be with you, 
and over you all. — I am your ever loving father. 



ISAAC BARROW. 1630—1677. 



Dr. Isaac Barrow, an eminent divine and mathematician, was the son of 
a linen-draper of London, and was born in that city in 1630. He studied at 
Cambridge for the ministry ; but being a royalist, and seeing but little chance 
of preferment for men of his sentiments in church or state, he turned his 
views to the medical profession, and engaged in the study of anatomy, botany, 
and chemistry. In 1652, having been disappointed in his expectations of 
obtaining a Greek professorship, he determined to travel, and spent some 
years in visiting France, Italy, Smyrna, Constantinople, Germany, and Hol- 
land. He returned in 1659, and was elected, in the following year, to the 
professorship in Cambridge, for which he had formerly been a candidate, 
and in 1662 to that of geometry in Gresham College, London. In 1663 he 
resigned both of these, on being elected professor of mathematics in Cam- 
bridge University. After filling this professorship with distinguished ability 
for six years, he made a voluntary resignation of it to his illustrious friend, Sir 
Isaac Newton, resolving to devote himself exclusively to theological studies. 
In 1670 he was made doctor of divinity, and two years after he was appointed 
master of Trinity College, by the king, who remarked on the occasion that he 
had given the place to the best scholar in England. He died May 4, 1677. 

Dr. Barrow was a man of vast and comprehensive mind. During his life, 
he was more known as a mathematician, being inferior only to Newton, and 
the treatises he published on his favorite science were numerous and pro- 
found. They were, however, mostly written in Latin, and designed for the 
learned : they are therefore now but little known. Not so with his theological 
works. " His sermons," says Hallam, " display a strength of mind, a compre 
hensiveness and fertility which have rarely been equalled." Charles II. was 
accustomed facetiously to style him a most vmfair preacher, because he ex- 
hausted every subject, and left nothing to be said by others. His sermons 
were of unusual length, being seldom less than an hour and' a half; and on 
one occasion, in preaching a charity sermon, he was three hours and a half in 
the delivery. Being asked, on descending from the pulpit, whether he was 
not tired, he replied, " Yes, indeed, I began to be weary with standing so 
long:" so great was his intellectual fertility, that mental fatigue seemed to be 
out of the question. Dr. Dibdin remarks of him, that he "had the clearest 
head with which mathematics ever endowed an individual, and one of the 
purest and most unsophisticated hearts that ever beat in the human breast." 
He once uttered a most memorable observation, which characterizes both the 
intellectual and moral constitution of his mind, — would that it could be en- 
graven on the mind of every youth, as his guide through life, — " a straight 

JLINE IS THE SHORTEST IK MORALS AS WELL AS IN GEOMETRY." 

THE DUTY AND REWARD OF BOUNTY TO THE POOR. 

He whose need craves our bounty, whose misery demands our 
mercy, what is he ? He is not truly so mean and sorry a thing 



1660-1685.] barrow. 279 

as the disguise of misfortune, under which he appears, doth re- 
present him. lie who looks so deformedly and dismally, who to 
outward sight is so ill bestead, and so pitifully accoutred, hath 
latent in him much of admirable beauty and glory. He within 
himself containeth a nature very excellent; an immortal soul, and 
an intelligent mind, by which he nearly resembleth God himself, 
and is comparable to angels : he invisibly is owner of endowments 
rendering him capable of the greatest and best things. What are 
mone}' and lands ; what are silk and fine linen ; what are horses 
and hounds, in comparison to reason, to wisdom, to virtue, to reli- 
gion, which he hath, or (in despite of all misfortune) he may have 
if he please ? He whom you behold so dejectedly sneaking, in so 
despicable a garb, so destitute of all convenience and comfort, Jying 
in the dust, naked or clad with rags, meagre with hunger or pain, 
he comes of a most high and heavenly extraction : he was born a 
prince, the son of the greatest King eternal ; he can truly call the 
Sovereign Lord of all the world his father, having derived his 
soul from the mouth, having had his body formed by the hands of 
God himself. In this, the rich and poor, as the wise man saith, 
do meet together; the Lord is the maker of them all. That same 
forlorn wretch, whom we are so apt to despise and trample upon, 
was framed and constituted lord of the visible world ; had all the 
goodly brightnesses of heaven, and all the costly furnitures of 
earth created to serve him. Thou madest him (saith the Psalmist 
of man) to have dominion over the works of thine hands ; thou 
hast put all things under his feet. Yea, he was made an in- 
habitant of Paradise, and possessor of felicities superlative ; had 
immortal life and endless joy in his hand, did enjoy the entire 
favor and friendship of the Most High. Such in worth of nature 
and nobleness of birth he is, as a man : and highly more consider- 
able he is, as a Christian. For, as vile and contemptible as he 
looks, God hath so regarded and prized him, as for his sake to de- 
scend from heaven, to clothe himself with flesh, to assume the form 
of a servant ; for his good to undertake and undergo the greatest in- 
conveniences, infirmities, wants, and disgraces, the most grievous 
troubles and most sharp pains incident to mortal nature. God hath 
adopted him to be his child; the Son of God hath deigned to call 
him brother : he is a member of Christ, a temple of the Holy 
Ghost, a free denizen of the heavenly city, an heir of salvation, 
and candidate of eternal glory. 1 The greatest and richest person- 
age is not capable of better privileges than God hath granted him, 
or of higher preferments than God hath designed him to. He, 

1 What noble sentiments ! How worthy of this great and good man 1 That will indeed be a glori- 
ous day when man everywhere shall not only speculatively believe, but practically act upon the 
great Christian truth, that all men, of whatever nation, color, or condition, are one universal bro- 
therhood, as all address c ne common Father. Then will every war be deemed a civil war— every 



280 BARROW. [CHARLES II. 

equally with the mightiest prince, is the ohject of God's especial 
providence and grace, of his continual regard and care, of his 
fatherly love and affection ; who, as good Elihu saith, accepteth 
not the persons of princes, nor regardeth the rich more than the 
poor ; for they are all the work of his hands. In fine, this poor 
creature whom thou seest is a man, and a Christian, thine equal, 
whoever thou art, in nature, and thy peer in condition : I say not, 
in the uncertain and unstable gifts of fortune, not in this worldly 
state, which is very inconsiderable ; but in gifts vastly more pre- 
cious, in title to an estate infinitely more rich and excellent. Yea, 
if thou art vain and proud, be sober and humble ; he is thy better, 
in true dignity much to be preferred before thee, far in real wealth 
surpassing thee : for, better is the poor that walketh in his upright' 
7iess, than he that is perverse in his ways, though he be rich. 

THE STRUCTURE OF THE HUMAN BODY A PROOF OF DIVINE 
WISDOM. 

Can any man, endued with common sense, imagine that such a 
body as any of us doth bear about him, so neatly composed, fitted 
to so many purposes of action ; furnished with so many goodly 
*md proper organs ; that eye by which we reach the stars, and in 
a moment have, as it were, all the world present to us ; that ear 
by which we so subtly distinguish the differences of sound, are 
sensible of so various harmony, have conveyed unto our minds 
•"he words and thoughts of each other ; that tongue by which we 
so readily imitate those vast diversities of voice and tune, by which 
we communicate our minds with such ease and advantage ; that 
hand by which we perform so many admirable works, and which 
serves instead of a thousand instruments and weapons unto us ; 
to omit those inward springs of motion, life, sense, imagination, 
memory, passion, with so stupendous curiosity contrived ; can 
any reasonable man, I say, conceive that so rare a piece, consist- 
ing of such parts, unexpressibly various, unconceivably curious, 
the want of any of which would discompose or destroy us ; sub- 
servient to such excellent operations, incomparably surpassing all 
the works of the most exquisite art, that we could ever observe or 

ileath on the battle-field, a murder — the soldier's name "a name abhorred" — and the slaveholder 
viewed by every one as Milton views him— 

O execrable son 1 so to aspire 

Above his brethren, to himself assuming 

Authority usurp'd, from God not given: 

He gave us only over beast, fish, fowl, 

Dominion absolute; that right we hold 

By his donation ; but man over men 

He made not lord ; such title to himself 

Reserving, human left prom human eree. 

Paradise Lost, xii. 64. 



1660-1685.] barrow. 281 

conceive, be the product of blind chance; arise from fortuitous 
jumblings of matter ; be effected without exceeding great wisdom, 
without most deep counsel and design ? Might not the most ex- 
cellent pieces of human artifice, the fairest structures, the finest 
pictures, the most useful engines, such as we are wont so much 
to admire and praise, much more easily happen to be without any 
skill or contrivance? If we cannot allow these rude and gross 
imitations of nature to come of themselves, but will presently, so 
soon as we see them, acknowledge them the products of art, 
though we know not the artist, nor did see him work ; how much 
more reasonable is it that we believe the works of nature, so much 
more fine and accurate, to proceed from the like cause, though in- 
visible to us, and performing its workmanship by a secret hand ? 

WHAT IS WIT ? 

To the question what the thing we speak of is, or what this 
facetiousness doth import? I might reply as Democritus did to 
him that asked the definition of a Man, 'Tis that which we all see 
and know : any one better apprehends what it is by acquaintance 
than I can inform him by description. It is indeed a thing so ver- 
satile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many pos- 
tures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes 
and judgments, that it seemeth no less hard to settle a clear and 
certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to 
define the figure of a fleeting air. Sometimes it lieth in pat allu- 
sion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial say- 
ing, or in forging an apposite tale : sometimes it playeth in words 
and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, 
or the affinity of their sound : sometimes it is wrapped in a dress 
of humorous expression: sometimesit lurketh under an odd simili- 
tude : sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, 
in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd imitation, in cunningly divert- 
ing, or cleverly retorting an objection: sometimes it is couched in 
a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in 
a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, 
or in acute nonsense : sometimes a scenical representation of per- 
sons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or gesture 
passeth for it : sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a pre 
sumptuous bluntness, giveth it being : sometimes it riseth from a 
lucky hitting upon what is strange, sometimes from a crafty wrest- 
ing obvious matter to the purpose : often it consisteth in one knows 
not what, and springeth up one can hardly tell how. Its ways 
are unaccountable and inexplicable, being answerable to the num- 
berless rovings of fancy and windings of language. It is, in short, 
a manner of speaking out of the simple and plain way, (such as 
reason teacheth and proveth things by,) which, by a pietty sur 

24* 



282 MARVELL. [CHARLES II. 

prising uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amuse 
the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some delight 
thereto. 

KNOWLEDGE A SOURCE OF DELIGHT. 

Wisdom of itself is delectable and satisfactory, as it implies a 
revelation of truth and a detection of error to us. 'Tis like light, 
pleasant to behold, casting a sprightly lustre, and diffusing a be- 
nign influence all about; presenting a goodly prospect of things 
to the eyes of our minds ; displaying objects in their due shapes, 
postures, magnitudes, and colors ; quickening our spirits with a 
comfortable warmth, and disposing our minds to a cheerful ac- 
tivity ; dispelling the darkness of ignorance, scattering the mists 
of doubt ; driving away the spectres of delusive fancy ; mitigating 
the cold of sullen melancholy ; discovering obstacles, securing 
progress, and making the passages of life clear, open, and plea- 
sant. We are all naturally endowed with a strong appetite to know, 
to see, to pursue truth ; and with a bashful abhorrency from being 
deceived and entangled in mistake. And as success in inquiry 
after truth affords matter of joy and triumph ; so being conscious 
of error and miscarriage therein, is attended with shame and sor- 
row. These desires wisdom in the most perfect manner satisfies, 
not by entertaining us with dry, empty, fruitless theories upon 
mean and vulgar subjects ; but by enriching our minds with ex- 
cellent and useful knowledge, directed to the noblest objects, and 
serviceable to the highest ends. 1 



ANDREW MARVELL. 1620—1678. 

Few men deserve more to be remembered with admiration than Andrew 
Marvel 1; not so much for his intellectual powers and mental attainments, 
great though they were, as for his high moral qualities. Indeed, a character 
in all respects, private, literary, and patriotic, so uncommonly excellent and 
noble, is rarely to be met with in the annals of history. He was born at 
Kingston-upon-Hull, in Yorkshire, in 1620, and at the age of fifteen entered 
Cambridge. After leaving the university he travelled many years in Europe. 

1 Bacon, in enumerating the advantages of knowledge, says, I. It relieves man's afflictions. 2. It 
promotes public virtue and order. 3. It promotes private virtues, by humanizing, humbling, nulli- 
fying vain admiration, improving. 4. It is power. 5. The pleasure of knowledge far exceedeth all 
other pleasures : for, shall the pleasures of the affections so exceed the senses, as much as the ob- 
taining of desire or victory exceedeth a song or a dinner; and must not of consequence, the plea- 
sures of the intellect or understanding exceed the pleasures of the affections ? We see in all other 
pleasures there is satiety, and after they be used, their verdure departeth ; which showeth well they 
be but deceits of pleasure, and not pleasures ; and that it was the novelty which pleased, and not the 
quality: and therefore we see that voluptuous men turn friars, and ambitious princes turn melan- 
choly. But of knowledge there is no satiety, but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually inter- 
changeable , and therefore appeareth to be good in itself simply, without fallacy or accident. 



1660-1685.] marvell, 283 

and on his return he became assistant Latin secretary to Milton, to whom he 
ever proved a most faithful friend, defending his reputation and shielding 
him from danger after the Restoration. 

In 1660 he was elected to parliament by the city of Hull, and was re 
elected as long as he lived. In his parliamentary duties he exhibited a zeal 
and faithfulness that were never surpassed ; constantly corresponding with 
his constituents, and earnestly contending for their public rights and local in- 
terests. He always voted on the popular side, and so great was his influence, 
that the court determined, if possible, to bribe him to their interests. Accord- 
ingly they sent his old school-fellow, the lord-treasurer Danby, to him, with 
an order for £1000 on the treasury. He found him in a garret, writing to his 
constituents. After some conversation, as he was going out, he slipped the 
order into Marvel! 's hand, who, without looking at it, accompanied him to his 
coach. As he was about driving off, Marvell, having opened the paper, and 
seen what it was, called him back, and they returned to the garret. " My 
lord," said Marvell, pointing to a small shoulder-bone of mutton, " Andrew 
Marvell's dinner is provided for; there is your piece of paper; I want it not. 
I know the sort of kindness you intend, but I live here to serve my con- 
stituents; the ministry may seek men for their purpose ; I am not one."' How 
refreshing it is to the eye to look upon a character of such unsullied purity, 
especially if it be in the midst of political life, that perilous arena, from which 
so few return without some spots to disfigure their moral vestments. 1 

Marvell, from the stern integrity of his character, rendered himself more 
and more obnoxious to a corrupt court. His personal satire against the king 
himself, his tracts against popery and the ministry, and his desperate literary 
battles with Bishop Parker, " that venal apostate to bigotry," (as Campbell 
calls him,) repeatedly endangered his life. Among other anonymous letters 
sent to him, was the following: "If thou darest to print or publish any lie or 
libel against Dr. Parker, by the Eternal God I will cut thy throat." But all 
this was to no purpose. He pursued the path of duty, unfaltering, and stood 
like a rock amid the foaming ocean. He, at last, died suddenly, on the 29th 
of July, 1678, while attending a public meeting at Hull: many supposed that 
he was poisoned. 

In his prose writings Marvell defended the principles of freedom with 
great vigor of eloquence and liveliness of humor. He mingled a playful exu 
berance of fancy and figure not unlike that of Burke, with a keenness of sar 
castic wit not surpassed even by Swift. 

The following spirited irony, taken from one of his answers to Parker, is 
on the 

"DOLEFUL EVILS" OF THE PRESS. 2 

For the press hath owed him a shame a long time, and is but 
now beginning- to pay off the debt, — the press, (that vdlanous 
engine,) invented about the same time with the Reformation, that 
hath done more mischief to the discipline of our church, than all 
the doctrine can make amends for. 'Twas a happy time when 

1 Burke and Wilberforce in England, and John Quincy Adams in our own country, are eminent 
exceptions to the general rule. 

2 Two well-written articles on Marvell may be found in the 10th and 11th vols, of the Retro 
spective Review. Read, also, an admirable life in Hartley Coleridge's "Lives of Distinguished 
Northern*." 



284 MARVELL. [CHARLES II. 

all learning was in manuscripts, and some little officer, like oui 
author, did keep the keys of the library; when the clergy needed 
no more knowledge than to read the Liturgy ; and the laity no 
more clerkship than to save them from hanging. But now, since 
printing came into the world, such is the mischief, that a man 
cannot write a book, but presently he is answered ! Could the 
press at once be conjured to obey only an Imprimatur, our author 
might not disdain, perhaps, to be one of its most zealous patrons. 
There have been waj^s found out to banish ministers, to fine not 
only the people, but even the grounds and fields where they as- 
sembled in conventicles. But no art yet could prevent these 
seditious meetings of letters. Two or three brawny fellows in a 
corner, with mere ink and elbow-grease, do more harm than a 
hundred systematical divines, with their sweaty preaching. 1 And, 
which is a strange thing, the very sponges, which one would 
think should rather deface and blot out the whole book, and were 
anciently used for that purpose, are now become the instruments 
to make things legible. Their ugly printing-letters, that look but 
like so many rotten teeth, — how oft have they been pulled out 
by the public tooth-drawers ! And yet these rascally operators 
of the press have got a trick to fasten them again in a few minutes, 
that they grow as firm a set, and as biting and talkative as ever. 
O Printing! how hast thou disturbed the peace of mankind ! 
That lead, when moulded into bullets, is not so mortal, as when 
founded into letters. There was a mistake, sure, in the story of 
Cadmus ; and the serpent's teeth, which he sowed, were nothing 
else but the letters which he invented. The first essay that was 
made towards this art was in single characters upon iron, where- 
with of old they stigmatized slaves and remarkable offenders ; and 
it was of good use sometimes to brand a schismatic. But a bulky 
Dutchman diverted it quite from its first institution, and contrived 
those innumerable syntagmes of alphabets. One would have 
thought, in reason, that a Dutchman at least might have contented 
himself only with the wine-press. 
The following is a cutting 

PARODY ON THE SPEECHES OF CHARLES II. 

My lords and gentlemen, 

I told you, at our last meeting, the Winter was the fittest time 
for business, and truly I thought so, till my lord-treasurer assured 
me the Spring was the best season for salads and subsidies. I 
hope, therefore, that April will not prove so unnatural a month, as 

1 How unspeakably important is it, considering the mighty influence of the press, that it should 
be, in all its departments, the guardian of morals— the handmaid of virtue : and yet, how many pub- 
lishers seem utterly reckless of the character of the books they publish, provided they " will sell :" 
and how few are the editors of our newspapers who do not appear to consider the triumphs of party 
d?nuuount to the triumphs of truth and justice. 



1660-1685.] marvell. 285 

not to afford some kind showers on my parched exchequer, which 
gapes for want of them. Some of you, perhaps, will think it dan- 
gerous to make me too rich ; hut I do not fear it ; for I promise 
you faithfully, whatever you give me I will always want ; and 
although in other things my word may he thought a slender au- 
thority, yet in that, you may rely on me, I will never break it. 
My lords and gentlemen, 

I can bear my straits with patience ; but my lord-treasurer does 
protest to me, that the revenue, as it now stands, will not serve 
him and me too. One of us must pinch for it, if you do not help 
me. I must speak freely to you ; I am under bad circumstances. 
Here is my lord-treasurer can tell, that all the money designed for 
next Summer's guards must of necessity be applied to the next 
year's cradles and swaddling clothes. What shall we do for 
ships then 1 I hint this only to you, it being your business, not 
mine. I know, by experience, I can live without ships. I lived 
ten years abroad without, and never had my health better in my 
life ; but how you will be without, I leave to yourselves to judge, 
and therefore hint this only by the bye : I do not insist upon it. 
There is another thing I must press more earnestly, and that is 
this : it seems a good part of my revenue will expire in two or 
three years, except you will be pleased to continue it. I have to 
say for it ; pray, why did you give me so much as you have done, 
unless you resolve to give on as fast as I call for it ? The nation 
hates you already for giving so much, and I will hate you too, if 
you do not give me more. So that, if you stick not to me, you 
must not have a friend in England. On the other hand, if you 
will give me the revenue I desire, I shall be able to do those 
things for your religion and liberty, that I have had long in my 
thoughts, but cannot effect them without a little more money to 
carry me through. Therefore look to't, and take notice, that if 
you do not make me rich enough to undo you, it shall lie at your 
doors. For my part, I wash my hands on it. 

If you desire more instances of my zeal, I have them for you. 
For example, I have converted my sons from popery, and I may 
say, without vanity, it was my own work. 'Twould do one's 
heart good to hear how prettily George can read already in the 
psalter. They are all fine children, God bless 'em, and so like 
me in their understandings ! 

I must now acquaint you, that, by my lord-treasurer's advice, I 
have made a considerable retrenchment upon my expenses in can 
dies and charcoal, and do not intend to stop, but will, with your 
help, look into the late embezzlements of my dripping-pans and 
kitchen-stuff. 

The friendship between Milton and Marvell is one of the most interesting 
subjects in the biography of two of the most noble characters of England. 



286 • MARVELL. [CHARLES II. 

After the Restoration he contrived various ways to shield Milton from the 
rage of the reigning powers. As a member of parliament he made a consider- 
able party fui him ; and it is probable that his humor contrived the premature 
and mock funeral of Milton, which is reported, for a time, to have duped his 
enemies into the belief of his real death: and to this manly friendship, in con- 
junction with the influence of the poet Davenant, is the world probably in- 
debted for Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, subsequently completed and 
published. One of Mar veil's sarcastic replies to Parker was attributed to 
Milton ; to which Marvell replies by telling his antagonist that « he had not 
seen John Milton for two years before he composed his book ;" and then he 
thus speaks of 

MILTON. 

John Milton was, and is, a man of as great learning and sharp- 
ness of wit as any man. It was his misfortune, living in a tumul- 
tuous time, to be tossed on the wrong side ; and he wrote, fla- 
grante bello, certain dangerous treatises. At his majesty's happy 
return, John Milton did partake, even as you did yourself, for all 
your buffing, of his regal clemency, and has ever since expiated 
himself in a retired silence. It was after that, I well remember it, 
that being one day at his house, I there first met you, and acci- 
dentally. What discourse you there used, he is too generous to 
remember. But he never having in the least provoked you, for 
you to insult thus over his old age, to traduce him who was born 
and hath lived much more ingenuously and liberally than your- 
self; to have done all this, and lay, at last, my simple book to his 
charge, without ever taking care to inform yourself better, which 
you had so easy opportunity to do ; it is inhumanly and inhospi- 
tably done, and will, I hope, be a warning to all others, as it is to 
me, to avoid (I will not say such a Judas, but) a man that creeps 
into all companies, to jeer, trepan, and betray them. 

Marvell's poetical productions are few, but they display a fancy lively, 
tender, and elegant; "there is much in them that comes from the heart, warm, 
pure, and affectionate." 

THE EMIGRANTS. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
In th' ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along, 
The listening winds received this song. 

What should we do, but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ! 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs- 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring, 
Which here enamels every thing ; 



1660-1685.] marvell. 237 

And sends the fowls to us in caie, 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet ; 
And throws the melons at our feet. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
Oh ! let our voice his praise exalt, 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault ; 
Which then, perhaps, rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay ! 

Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note, 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 

The wanton troopers riding by 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive 
Them any harm ; alas ! nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill; 
Nor do I for all this ; nor will : 
But,- if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears, 
Rather than fail. But, my fears ! 
It cannot die so. Heaven's king 
Keeps register of every thing, 
And nothing may we use in vain : 
E'en beasts must be with justice slain. 

But I am sure, for aught that I 

Could in so short a time espy, 

Thy love was far more better than 

The love of false and cruel man. 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 

I it at my own fingers nursed ; 

And as it grew, so every day 

It wax'd more white and sweet than they 

It had so sweet a breath ! And oft 

I blush'd to see its foot more soft 

And white, shall I say than my hand ? 

Nay, any lady's of the land. 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 

'Twas on those little silver feet. 

With what a pretty skipping grace 

It oft would challenge me the race ; 

And when't had left me far away, 

'T would stay, and run again, and stay^ 



288 FELLTHAM. [CHAKLES JL 

For it was nimbler much than hinds, 

And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own, 

But so with roses overgrown, 

And lilies, that you would it guess 

To be a little wilderness, 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft where it should lie; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 

Find it, although before mine eyes; 

For in the flaxen lilies' shade 

It like a bank of lilies laid. 

Upon the roses it would feed 

Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed ; 

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 

And print those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 

On roses thus itself to fill ; 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In Whitest sheets of lilies cold. 

Had it lived long, it would have been 

Lilies without, roses within. 



OWEN FELLTHAM. Died 1678. 



Of the personal history of Owen Felkham we know but very little. Even 
the accomplished editor of his works, 1 after many years of unwearied search, 
was not able to find any thing satisfactory relative to his life. He remarks : 
"There are few English writers, perhaps none, who enjoyed any consider- 
able celebrity in die ages in which they lived, of whom less is known, than 
of the author of the ' Resolves ;' and what is particularly remarkable, though 
this production of his pen has passed through no less than twelve editions, I 
do not find the name of Owen Felltham to have been made the subject of an 
article in any of our printed biographical collections." 

The chief work of Felltham is, his " Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Politi 
cal," consisting of two " Centuries," as he calls them, that is, of two parts 
containing each one hundred Essays or " Resolves." They consist of a series 
of essays on subjects comected with religion, morality, and the conduct of 
life : and they appear to have been termed " Resolves," because, at the con 
elusion of each essay, the author generally forms resolutions for his own con 
duct drawn from his own precepts. In this direct, personal application, they 
differ from the " Essays" of Lord Bacon, to which they otherwise bear a fre 
quent resemblance in manner, and still more in matter. The style of Fell- 
tham is not always equal ; but is generally strong, harmonious, and well 

1 " Resolves, Divine, Moral, and Political." A new edition, &c, by James dimming, Esq. London, 
1806. 8vo. Rsad, also, an excellent article in the Retrospective Review, x. 343, the writer of which 
concludes with these remarks : " We lay aside the 'Resolves,' as we part from our dearest friends, 
In the hope of frequently returning to them. We recommend the whole of them to the perusal of 
our readers. They will find therein more solid maxims, as much piety, and far better writing, than 
In most of the pulpit lectures now current among us." 



1660-1685.] FELLTHAM. 289 

adapted to the subjects of which he treats. He is prodigal of metaphor and 
quotation, and on that account has been accused of pedantry ; but his figures 
are always beautifully illustrative of his subject, and his quotations generally 
appropriate. As to his sentiments, they are remarkable for their sound, good 
sense, as well as for their great purity of moral and religious principle. 

WE ARE HAPPY OR MISERABLE BY COMPARISON. 

There is not in this world either perfect misery or perfec 
happiness. Comparison, more than reality, makes men happy 
and can make them wretched. What should we account mise- 
rable, if we did not lay it in the balance with something that hath 
more felicity ? If we saw not some men vaulting in the gay trim 
of honor and greatness, we should never think a poor estate so 
lamentable. Were all the world ugly, deformity would be 
no monster. It is, without doubt, our eyes gazing at others 
above, casts us into a shade, which, before that time, we met not 
with. It is envy and ambition that makes us far more mise- 
rable than the constitution which our liberal nature hath allotted 
us. Many never find themselves in want, till they have dis- 
covered the abundance of some others. It was comparison 
that first kindled the fire, to burn Troy withal. Give it to 
the fairest, was it, which jarred the Goddesses. Paris might 
have given the ball with less offence, had it not been so inscribed. 
Surely Juno was content with her beauty, till the Trojan youth 
cast her, by advancing Venus. While we spy no joys above 
our own, we in quiet count them blessings. We see even 
a few companions can lighten our miseries : by which we may 
guess the effect of a generality. Blackness, a flat nose, thick 
lips, and goggled eyes, are beauties, where nor shapes nor colors 
differ. He is much impatient, that refuseth the general lot. For 
myself, I will reckon that misery, which I find hurts me in mj- 
self; not that which, coming from another, I may avoid, if I will. 
Let me examine whether that I enjoy, be not enough to felicitate 
me, if I stay at home. If it be, I would not have another's better 
fortune put me out of conceit with my own. In outward things, 
I will look to those that are beneath me ; that if I must build my- 
self out of others, I may rather raise content than murmur. But 
for accomplishments of the mind, I will ever fix on those above 
me ; that I may, out of an honest emulation, mend myself by con- 
tinual striving to imitate their nobleness. 

OF PRAYER. 

It is a hard thing among men of inferior rank to speak to an 
earthly prince : no king keeps a court so open as to give admit- 
tance to all comers : and though they have, they are not sure to 
speed ; albeit there be nothing that should make their petitions 
T 25 



290 FELLTHAM. [CHARLES I] 

not grantable. Oh how happy, how privileged then is a Chri) 
tian! who though he often lives here in a slight esteem, yet cau 
he freely confer with the King of Heaven; who not only hears 
his entreaties, but delights in his requests ; invites him to come, 
and promiseth a happy welcome ; which he shows in fulfilling 
his desires, or better, fitter for him : in respect of whom, the 
greatest monarch is more base than the basest vassal in regard of 
the most mighty and puissant emperor. Man cannot so much ex- 
ceed a beast, as God doth him : what if I be not known to the 
Nimrods of the world, and the peers of the earth ? I can speak 
to their better, to their Master ; and by prayer be familiar with 
him. Importunity does not anger him ; neither can any thing 
but our sins make us go away empty. My comfort is, my access 
to heaven is as free as the prince's ; my departure from earth not 
so grievous : for while the world smiles on him, I am sure I have 
less reason to love it than he. God's favor I will chiefly seek 
for ; man's, but as it falls in the way to it : when it proves a 
hinderance, I hate to be loved. 

OF FAITH AND WORKS. 

Works without Faith are like a salamander without fire, or a 
fish without water : in which, though there may seem to be some 
quick actions of life, and symptoms of agility, yet they are, in- 
deed, but forerunners of their end, and the very presages of 
death. Faith again without Works is like a bird without wings : 
who, though she may hop with her companions here upon earth, 
3'et if she live till the world ends, she will never fly to heaven. 
But when both are joined together, then doth the soul mount up 
to the hill of eternal rest : these can bravely raise her to her first 
height : yea carry her beyond it ; taking away both the will that 
did betray her, and the possibility that might. The former with- 
out the latter is self-cozenage ; the last without the former is 
mere hypocrisy ; together, the excellency of religion. Faith is 
the rock , while every good action is as a stone laid ; one the foun- 
dation, the other the structure. The foundation without the walls 
is of slender value: the building without a basis cannot stand. 
They are so inseparable, as their conjunction makes them good. 
Chiefly will I labor for a sure foundation, saving Faith; and 
equally I will seek for strong walls, good Works. For as man 
judgeth the house by the edifice, more than by the foundation: 
so, not according to his Faith, but according to his Works, shall 
God judge man. 

SEDULITY AND DILIGENCE. 

There is no such prevalent workman as sedulity, and diligence. 
A man would wonder at the mighty things which have been 



1660-1685.] FELLTHAM. 291 

done by degrees and gentle augmentations. Diligence and 
moderation are the best steps, whereby to climb to any excel- 
lency. Nay, it is rare if there be any other way. The hea- 
vens send not down their rain in floods, but by drops and dewy 
distillations. A man is neither good, nor wise, nor rich, at once : 
yet softly creeping up these hills, he shall every day better his 
prospect ; till at last he gains the top. Now he learns a virtue, 
and then he damns 1 a vice. An hour in a day may much profit 
a man in his study, when he makes it stint and custom. Every 
year something laid up, may in time make a stock great. Nay, 
if a man does but save, he shall increase ; and though when 
the grains are scattered, they be next to nothing, yet together 
they will swell the heap. He that has the patience to attend 
small profits, may quickly grow to thrive and purchase : they be 
easier to accomplish, and come thicker. So, he that from every 
thing collects somewhat, shall in time get a treasury of wisdom. 
And when all is done, for man, this is the best way. It is for 
God, and for Omnipotency, to do mighty things in a moment : but, 
degreeingly to grow to greatness, is the course that he hath left 
for man. 

CONTENT MAKES RICH. 

Every man either is rich, or may be so ; though not all in one 
and the same wealth. Some have abundance, and rejoice in it ; 
some a competency, and are content ; some having nothing, have 
a mind desiring nothing. He that hath most, wants something; 
he that hath least, is in something supplied ; wherein the mind 
which maketh rich, may well possess him with the thought of 
store. Who whistles out more content than the low-fortuned 
ploughman, or sings more merrily than the abject cobbler that sits 
under the stall ? Content dwells with those that are out of the 
eye of the world, whom she hath never trained with her gauds, 
her toils, her lures. Wealth is like learning, wherein our greater 
knowledge is only a larger sight of our wants. Desires fulfilled, 
teach us to desire more ; so we that at first were pleased, by re- 
moving from that, are now grown insatiable. Wishes have neither 
end ; nor end. So, in the midst of affluency, we complain of 
penury, which, not finding, we make. For to possess the whole 
world with a grumbling mind, is but a little more specious poverty. 
If I be not outwardly rich, I will labor to be poor in craving de- 
sires ; but in the virtues of the mind, (the best riches,) I would 
not have a man exceed me. He that hath a mind contentedly 
good, enjoyeth in .t boundless possessions. If I be pleased in 
myseJf, who can add to my happiness ? as no man lives so happy, 

1 Used in the Latin sense otdamno, to condemn, to renounce. 



292 SAMUEL BUTLER. [CHARLES IT. 

but to some his life would be burdensome ; so we shall find nor>^ 
so miserable, but we shall hear of another that would change 
calamities. 

MORNING AND EVENING PRAYER. 

Though prayer should be the key of the day, and the lock 0/ 
the night, yet I hold it more needful in the morning, than wher 
our bodies do take their repose. For howsoever sleep be the 
image or shadow of death, — and when the shadow is so near, the 
substance cannot be far, — yet a man at rest in his chamber is like 
a sheep unpenned in the fold ; subject only to the unavoidable 
and more immediate hand of God : whereas in the day, when he 
roves abroad in the open and wide pastures, he is then exposed 
to many more unthought-of accidents, that contingently and casu- 
ally occur in the way : retiredness is more safe than business : 
who believes not a ship securer in the bay, than in the midst of 
the boiling ocean ? Besides, the morning to the day, is as youth 
to the life of a man : if that be begun well, commonly his age is 
virtuous : otherwise, God accepts not the latter service, when his 
enemy joys in the first dish. Why should God take thy dry bones f 
when the devil hath sucked the marrow out ? 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 1612—1680. 



While Andrew Marvell was the leading prose wit of the reign of Charles 
II., Samuel Butler was the author of the best burlesque poem in the lan- 
guage. He was born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612. It cannot 
be ascertained whether he enjoyed a university education or not; but his 
"writings show that his scholarship, however acquired, was both varied and 
profound. In early life he was employed as a clerk to the county magistrate 
of Worcestershire, where he enjoyed ample leisure for reading and medita- 
tion ; and afterwards, in the household of the Countess of Kent, where he had 
the use of an ample library, which he did not fail to improve. Hence, he 
went into the employment of Sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's officers, 
where he saw much of the unfavorable side of the Puritans; and here, it is 
supposed, he first conceived the idea of his satirical epic upon them. The 
first part of the poem was published three years after the Restoration ; and 
though it was the delight of the court, and quoted everywhere and in all cir- 
cles, the poet reaped nothing but empty praise. In 1664, the second part 
was published, but still no pecuniary reward was received from the court, for 
whom he chiefly wrote, and to whose gratification he chiefly contributed. It 
was not till 1678 that the third part appeared, and in 1680 he died, and so 
poor was he, that he was buried at the sole expense of a friend, in a church- 
yard, after a place in Westminster Abbey had been refused. But what grati- 
tude, or any noble feeling could be expected from Charles II., or any of hia 
licentious court? 

The, poem o^ ' : Hudibras" is unique in European literature. It was evi- 



1(560-1685.] SAMUEL BUTLER. 293 

dently suggested by the adventures of Don Quixote ; for as Cervantes sent 
forth his hero upon a chivalrous crusade to right wrongs, and redress griev- 
ances, in order to bring the institution of chivalry, of which he claims to be 
the personification, into contempt ; so Sir Hudibras, claiming to be a represen- 
tative of the true Presbyterian character, goes forth " a colonelling," against all 
those popular sports, of which the Puritans of the day had such a holy horror, 
to make this sect appear in the most ridiculous light. But the Puritan of But- 
ler is an aggravated caricature, rather than a faithful portrait ;' and though the 
poem possesses " an excess of wit, rhymes the most original and ingenious, 
and the most apt and burlesque metaphors, couched in an easy, gossiping, 
colloquial metre ; yet it would be as impossible to read Hudibras to an end 
at once, as to dine on cayenne or pickles. It administers no food to the 
higher and more permanent feelings of the human mind. The moral comes 
to be felt to be without dignity, the wit without gayety or relief, the story lag- 
ging and flat. Even the rhymes, amusing as they are, become, after a time, 
like the repetitions of a mimic, tiresome and stale." 

DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS. 

When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
And men fell out, they knew not why ; 

1 The following, on the character of the Puritans, is taken from an article on Milton in the 42d vol, 
of the Edinburgh Review; an article which, for its truth and eloquence, stands first among the writ- 
ings of " the great essayist of the age" — T. B. Macaulay. 

"The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contempla- 
tion of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, 
an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for 
whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to 
serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the 
ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. If they were un- 
acquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If 
their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in 
the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of 
ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their 
diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away ! On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles 
and priests, they looked down with contempt: for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious 
treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language; nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and 
priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. 

"The Puritan, indeed, was made up of two different men; the one all self-abasement, penitence, 
gratitude, passion ; the other, proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust 
before his Maker : but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he 
prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. People who saw nothing of the godly but their 
uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might 
laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or 
in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judgment, 
and an immutability of purpose, which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious 
zeal, but which were, in fact, the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject 
made them tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pily and 
hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms. They had their 
smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. 

" Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans. We perceive the absurdity of their 
manners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their domestic habits. We acknowledge that the tone of 
their minds was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach: and we know that 
fn spite of their hatred of popery, they too often fell into the worst vices of that bad system, intole- 
rance and extravagant austerity. Yet, when all circumstances are taken 'iitq con ciderauon, we do 
not hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and a useful U"ay.*' 

2,'j* 



294 SAMUEL BUTLER. [CHARLES II. 

"When hard words, jealousies, and fears 

Set folks together by the ears ; 

When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 

With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded ; 

And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 

Was beat with fist instead of a stick ;' 

Then did Sir Knight 2 abandon dwelling, 

And out he rode a-colonelling. 

A wight he "was, whose very sight would 

Entitle him mirror of knighthood, 

That never bow'd his stubborn knee 3 

To any thing but chivalry, 

Nor put up blow, but that which laid 

Right worshipful on shoulder-blade. 

But here some authors make a doubt 

Whether he were more wise or stout ; 

Some hold the one, and some the other, 

But, howsoever they make a pother, 

The difference was so small, his brain 

Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain ; 

Which made some take him for a tool 

That knaves do work with, calFd a fool: 

We grant, although he had much wit, 

H' was very shy of using it, 

As being loath to wear it out, 

And therefore bore it not about ; 

Unless on holidays or so, 

As men their best apparel do. 

Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs squeak ; 

That Latin was no more difficile 4 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle. 

HIS LOGIC. 

He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skill'd in analytic : 
He could distinguish, and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
On either which he would dispute, 
Confute, change hands, and still confute : 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, a man's no horse ; 
He'd prove a blizzard is no fowl, 
And that a lord may be an owl ; 
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation, 
And pay with ratiocination : 

1 The speaking of a stick as one word, with the stress upon a, heightens the burlesque, and cons» 
quently is rather an excellency than a fault. 

2 Butler's hero, Sir Samuel Luke, was not only a colonel in the parliament army, but also Scout- 
master-General in the counties of Bedford, Surrey, &c. 

3 That is, he kneeled to the king when he knighted him, but seldom upon any other occasion. 

4 Sancho Panza says of Don Quixote, " that he is a main scolard, Latins it hugely, and talks his 
own motlier tongue as well as one of your I unity Doctors ' 



1GG0-1685.] SAMUEL BUTLER. 2^5 

All this by syllogism true, 

In mood and figure he would do. 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 

His mouth, but out there flew a trope : 

And when he happen'd to break off 

In th' middle of his speech, or cough, 

H' had hard words ready to show why, 

And tell what rules he did it by ; 

Else when with greatest art he spoke, 

You'd think he talk'd like other folk ; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But when he pleased to show't, his speech, 

In loftiness of sound, was rich ; 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect; 

It was a party-color'd dress 

Of patch "d and piebald languages; 

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin ; 

It had an odd promiscuous tone, 

As if h' had talk'd three parts in one; 

Which made some think, when he did gabble 

Th' had heard three laborers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

HIS MATHEMATICS. 

In Mathematics he was greatei 
Than Tycho Brahe 1 or Erra Pater j 51 
For he, by geometric scale, 
Could take the size of pots of ale ; 3 
Resolved by sines and tangents straight 
If bread or butter wanted weight ; 
And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 
The clock does strike, by algebra. 

HIS METAPHYSICS. 

Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, 
And had read every text and gloss over ; 
Whate'er the crabbed 'st author hath, 
He understood b' implicit faith: 
Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 
For every why he had a wherefore ; 
Knew more than forty of them do, 
As far as words and terms could go ; 
All which he understood by rote, 
And, as occasion served, would quote ; 
No matter whether right or wrong ; 
They might be either said or sung. 

1 Tycho Brahe was an eminent Danish mathematician. 

2 By Erra Pater, it is thought that Butler alluded to one William Lilly, a famous astrologer of 
those times. 

u As a .justice of the peace, he had a right to inspect weights and measures. 



296 SAMUEL BUTLER. [CHARLES H, 

His notions fitted things so well, 

That which was winch he could not tell, 

But oftentimes mistook the one 

For tli' other, as great clerks have done. 

He knew what's what, 1 and that's as high 

As metaphysic wit can fly : 

He could raise scruples dark and nice, 

And after solve "em in a trice ; 

As if divinity had catch 'd 

The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd ; 

Or, like a mountebank, did wound, 

And stab herself with doubts profound, 

Only to show with how small pain 

The sores of Faith are cured again; 

Although by woful proof we find 

They always leave a scar behind. 

HIS APPAREL. 

His doublet was of sturdy buff, 
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proo£ 
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use, 
Who feared no blows but such as bruise. 

His breeches were of rugged woollen, 
And had been at the siege of Bullen; 2 
To old King Harry so well known, 
Some writers held they were his own: 
Though they were fined with many a piece 
Of ammunition bread and cheese, 
And fat black-puddings, proper food 
For warriors that delight in blood : 
For, as we said, he always chose 
To carry victuals in his hose, 
That often tempted rats and mice 
The ammunition to surprise ; 
And when he put a hand but in 
The one or t'other magazine, 
They stoutly on defence on't stood, 
And from the wounded foe drew blood. 

Such are a few specimens of Butler's wit as displayed in his poetry. The 
same vein runs through his prose works, which were not published till a con- 
siderable time after his death. We can give but one specimen:— 

A SMALL POET 

Is one that would fain make himself that which nature never 
meant him ; like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own 
whimsies. He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very 
small stock, and no credit. He believes it is invention enough to 
find out other men's wit ; and whatsoever he lights upon, either 
in books or company, he makes bold with as his own. This he 

1 A rHicule on the senseless questions in the common systems of logic, as, quid est quid t whence 
•sinie tne common proverbial expression of he knows what's what, to denote a shrewd man. 
i Jjoulogiit .vas besieged by King Henry VIII., July 14, 1544, and surrendered in September. 



1660-1685.] SAMUEL BUTLER. 297 

puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit 
has the rickets, hy the swelling disproportion of the joints. You 
may know his wit not to be natural, 'tis so unquiet and trouble- 
some in him : for as those that have money but seldom are always 
shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he, when he 
thinks he has got something that will make him appear. He is 
a perpetual talker ; and you may know by the freedom of his 
discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what 
they get. He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he mur- 
ders, to prevent discovery ; so sure is he to cry down the man 
from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass 
unsuspected. He appears so over-concerned in all men's wits, as 
if they were but disparagements of his own ; and cries down all 
they do, as if they were encroachments upon him. He takes 
jests from the owners and breaks them, as justices do false 
weights, and pots that want measure. When he meets with any 
thing that is very good, he changes it into small money, like three 
groats for a shilling, to serve several occasions. He disclaims 
study, pretends to take things in motion, and .to shoot flying, 
which appears to be very true, by his often missing of his mark. 
As for epithets, he always avoids those that are near akin to the 
sense. Such matches are unlawful, and not fit to be made by a 
Christian poet ; and therefore all his care is to choose out such as 
will serve, like a wooden leg, to piece out a maimed verse that 
wants a foot or two, and if they will but rhyme now and then into 
the bargain, or run upon a letter, it is a work of supererogation. 
For similitudes he likes the hardest and most obscure best ; for 
as ladies wear black patches to make their complexions seem 
fairer than they are, so when an illustration is more obscure than 
the sense that went before it, it must of necessity make it appear 
clearer than it did; for contraries are best sort off with contraries. 
He has found out a new set of poetical Georgics — a trick of sow- 
ing wit like clover-grass on barren subjects, which would yield 
nothing before. This is very useful for the times, wherein, some 
men say, there is no room left for new invention. He will take 
three grains of wit, like the elixir, and, projecting it upon the iron 
age, turn it immediately into gold. All the business of mankind 
has presently vanished, the whole world has kept holiday ; there 
has been no men but heroes and poets, no women but nymphy 
and shepherdesses ; trees have borne fritters, and rivers flowed 
plum-porridge. When he writes, he commonly steers the senss 
of his lines by the rhyme that is at the end of them, as butchers 
do calves by the tail. For when he has made one line, which is 
easy enough, and has found out some sturdy hard word that will 
but rhyme, he will hammer the sense upon it, like a piece of hot 
iron upon an anvil, into what form he pleases. There is no art 



293 BROWNE. [CHARLES II. 

in the world so rich in terms as poetry ; a whole dictionary is 
scarce able to contain*them ; for there is hardly a pond, a sheep- 
walk, or a gravel-pit in all Greece, but the ancient name of it is 
become a term of art in poetry. By this means, small poets have 
such a stock of able hard words lying by them, as dryades, hama 
dryades, aonides, fauni, nymphae, sylvani, &c, that signify no- 
thing at all; and such a world of pedantic terms of the same 
kind, as may serve to furnish all the new inventions and " tho- 
rough reformations" that can happen between this and Plato's 
threat year. 



SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 1605—1682. 

One of the most original as well as learned men of the reign of Charles 
[I., was Sir Thomas Browne. He was born in London in 1605, and in 1623 
ne entered Oxford, intending to devote himself to the study of medicine. 
Having taken his degree, he practised physic for some time in Oxfordshire. 
He then went abroad, and travelled in France, Italy, and Holland ; and at 
Leyden he took the degree of doctor of physic. Returning to England in 
1634, he settled at Norwich, and on account of his great reputation as a phy- 
sician, he was, a few years after, made honorary fellow of the Royal College 
of Physicians in London. He was knighted in 1671 by Charles II., in his 
progress through Norwich, with singular marks of consideration ; and died 
in 1682. 

The following are the principal productions of Sir Thomas Browne: — 
1. " The Religio Medici, or the Religion of a Physician." It is divided into two 
parts; the first containing his confession of faith, that is, all his curious reli- 
gious opinions and feelings ; the second, a confession of charity ; that is, all 
his human feelings. 1 2. His " Pseudodoxia Epidemical more generally 
known by the title of " Browne's Vulgar Errors." This is the most popular 
of all his works. He treats his subject very methodically, dividing the whole 
into seven books, considering the various errors as they arise from minerals 
and vegetables, animals, man, pictures, geography, philosophy, and history. 
Notwithstanding the singularity and quaintness which pervade this work, it 
is one that displays great learning and penetration, and is very interesting. 
3. Another production was entitled " Hydriolaphia, Urn-Burial ; or a Discourse 
of the Sepulchral Urns lately found in Norfolk." " In this work," says an 
able critic, 2 " Sir Thomas Browne hath dared to take the grave itself for his 
theme. He deals not with death as a shadow, but as a substantial reality. 
He dwehs not on it as a mere cessation of life — he treats it not as a terrible 
negation — but enters on its discussion as a state with its own solemnities and 
pomps." 

Dr. Johnson has described Browne's style with much critical acumen. " It 
is," says he, "vigorous, but rugged; it is learned, but pedantic ; it is deep, but 

1 Of this, Dr. Johnson, in his life of Browne, thus remarks : " The Religio Medici was no sooner 
published, than it excited the attention of the public by the novelty of paradoxes, the dignity of sen- 
timent, the quick succession of images, the multitude of abstruse allusions, the subtlety of disquisi- 
tion, and the strength of language." 

2 For an interesting notice of this singular work, see Retrospective Review, i. 84. Read, also, 
some remarks on our author in Hazlitt's "Age of Elizabeth." 



1660-1685.] browne. 299 

obscure; it strikes, but does not please; it commands. but does not allure: his 
tropes are harsh, and his combinations uncouth. He fell into an age in which 
out language began to lose the stability which it had obtained in the time of 
Elizabeth; and was considered by every writer as a subject on which he 
might try his plastic skill, by moulding it according to his own fancy. His 
style is, indeed, a tissue of many languages; a mixture of heterogeneous words, 
brought together from distant regions, with terms originally appropriate to one 
^rt, and drawn by violence into the service of another." 1 

THOUGHTS ON DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. 

In a field of Old Walsingham, not many months past, were 
digged up between forty and fifty urns, deposited in a dry and 
sandy soil, not a yard deep, not far from one another : not all 
strictly of one figure, but most answering these described ; some 
containing two pounds of bones, distinguishable in skulls, ribs, 
jaws, thigh-bones, and teeth, with fresh impressions of their com- 
bustion ; besides, the extraneous substances, like pieces of small 
boxes, or combs handsomely wrought, handles of small brass in- 
struments, brazen nippers, and in one some kind of opal. 

Tbat these were the urns of Romans, from the common custom 
and place where they were found, is no obscure conjecture ; not 
far from a Roman garrison, and but five miles from Brancaster, 
set down by ancient record under the name of Brannodunum ; 
and where the adjoining town, containing seven parishes, in no 
ver) T different sound, but Saxon termination, still retains the name 
of Burnham ; which being an early station, it is not improbable the 
neighbor parts were filled with habitations, either of Romans them- 
selves, or Britons Romanised, which observed the Roman cus- 
toms. * * * 

What song the sirens sang, or what name Achilles assumed 
when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions, 
are not beyond all conjecture. What time the persons of these 
ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with 
princes and counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But who 
were the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes 
made up, were a question above antiquarianism : not tc be resolved 
by man, not easily perhaps by spirits, except we consult the pro- 
vincial guardians, or tutelary observators. Had they made as 
good provision for their names, as they have done for their relics, 

1 But Dr. Johnson himself did not scruple to transfer to his own pagps many of Browne'3 pondei ■ 
oua words; for, as Cumberland truly says of him, 

"He forced Latinisms into his lines, 
Like raw, undrill'd recruits." 
"Sir Thomas Browne is among my first favorites. Rich in various knowledge, exuberant in con- 
ceptions and conceits ; contemplative, imaginative, often truly great and magnificent in his style and 
diction, though, doubtless, too often big, stiff, and hyper-luti tistir."— Co/fridge. 



300 BROWNE. [CHARLES II* 

they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. But to 
subsist in bones', and be but pyramidally extant, is a fallacy in du- 
ration. * * * 

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and 
deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of per- 
petuity. Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids ? He- 
rostratus lives, that burnt the temple of Diana ! he is almost lost 
that built it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse, 
confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by 
the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations ; 
and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamemnon, without the 
favor of the everlasting register. Who knows whether the best 
of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable per- 
sons forgot, than any that stand remembered in the known account 
of time ? The first man had been as unknown as the last, and 
Methuselah's long life had been his only chronicle. 

There is nothing strictly immortal, but immortality. Whatever 
hath no beginning, may be confident of no end. All others have 
a dependent being, and within the reach of destruction, which is 
the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself, 
and the highest strain of omnipotency, to be so powerfully consti- 
tuted, as not to suffer even from the power of itself. But the suffi- 
ciency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and 
the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthumous 
memory. 

Man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the 
grave ; solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre. 

To subsist in lasting monuments, to live in their productions, to 
exist in their names, and predicament of chimeras, was large satis- 
faction unto old expectations, and made one part of their Elysiums. 
But all this is nothing in the metaphysics of true belief. To live 
indeed is to be again ourselves, which being not only a hope, but 
an evidence in noble believers, it is all one to lie in St. Innocent's ' 
churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt ; ready to be any thing in 
the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six foot as the moles 
of Adrianus. 3 

EydriotapMa. 
PRIDE. 

I thank God amongst those millions of vices I do inherit and 
noid from Adam, I have escaped one, and that a mortal enemy to 
charity, the first ana father sin, not only of man, but of the devil, — 
pride ; a vice whose name is comprehended in a monosyllable, 
but in its nature not circumscribed with a world ; I have escaped 

1 In Paris, where bodies soon consume. 

2 A stately mauso'.rum, or sepulchiav pile, built by Adrianus in Rome, where now standeth the 
astle of St. Angeio 



1660-1685.] beowne. 301 

it in a condition that can hardly avoid it; those petty acquisitions 
and reputed perfections that advance and elevate the conceits of 
other men, add no feathers into mine. I have seen a grammarian 
tour and plume himself over a single line in Horace, and show 
more pride in the construction of one ode, than the author in the 
composure of the whole book. For my own part, besides the jar- 
gon and patois of several provinces, I understand no less than six 
languages ; yet I protest I have no higher conceit of myself, than 
had our fathers before the confusion of Babel, when there was but 
one language in the w T orld, and none to boast himself either lin- 
guist or critic. I have not only seen several countries, beheld the 
nature of their climes, the chorography of their provinces, topo- 
graphy of their cities, but understood their several laws, customs, 
and policies ; yet cannot all this persuade the dulness of my spirit 
unto such an opinion of myself, as I behold in nimbler and con- 
ceited heads, that never looked a degree beyond their nests. I 
know the names, and somewhat more, of all the constellations in my 
horizon ; yet I have seen a prating mariner that could only name 
the pointers and the North star, out-talk me, and conceit himself 
a whole sphere above me. I know most of the plants of my coun- 
try, and of those about me ; yet methinks I do not know so many 
as when I did but know a hundred, and had scarcely ever sim- 
pled further than Cheapside ; for indeed heads of capacity, and 
such as are not full with a handful, or easy measure of knowledge, 
think they know nothing till they know all ; which being impos- 
sible, they fall upon the opinion of Socrates, and only know they 
know not any thing. 1 

1 Soliloquies of the Old Philosopher and the Young Lady. 

"Alas !" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, "how narrow is the utmost extent of human knowledge! 
how circumscribed the sphere of intellectual exertion I I have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, 
but how little do I know 1 The farther I attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the more I am 
bewildered and benighted. Beyond a certain limit, all is but confusion or conjecture : so that the 
advantage of the learned over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained how little is to be 
known. 

" It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the distances of the planets ; I can calculate 
their periodical movements ; and even ascertain the laws by which they perform their sublime revo 
lutions : but with regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit them, of their condition 
and circumstances, whether natural or moral, what do I know more than the clown ? 

"I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground: and I am taught to account for this by 
the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than a term ? Does it convey to my mind 
any idea of the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common 
centre? I observed the effect, I gave a name to the cause; but can I explain or comprehend it? 

"Pursuing the tract of the naturalist, I have learned to distinguish the animal, vegetable, and mi- 
neral kingdoms : and to divide them into their distinct tribes and families :— but can I tell, after all 
this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its vitality ?— could the most minute researches ena- 
ble me to discover the exquisite pencil that paints and fringes the flower of the Seld ?— have I ever 
detected the secret that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the emerald, „r the art that enamels 
the delicate shell ? 

'Alas I then, what have I gained by my laborious researches but an humiliating conviction of my 

26 



302 WALTON. [CHARLES II. 

As a specimen of his worst Latinized English, we give the following from 
his " Vulgar Errors." He notices the custom of foretelling events by spots 
upon the nails in this curious manner : — 

That temperamental dignotions, and conjecture of prevalent 
humors, may be collected from spots in our nails, we are not 
averse to concede. But yet not ready to admit sundry divina- 
tions, vulgarly raised upon them. 

And again : — 

Of lower consideration is the common foretelling of strangers 
from the fungous parcel about the wicks of candles ; which only 
signifieth a moist and pluvious ayr about them, hindering the avo- 
lation of the light and favillous particles. 



IZAAK WALTON. 1593—1683. 

Izaak Walton, the "Father of Angling," was born at Stafford, in 1593. 
Of his early education little is known ; but having acquired a moderate com 
petency in business in London, as a linen-draper, he retired from business in 
1643, at the age of fifty, and lived forty years after, in uninterrupted leisure 
dying in 1683, in the ninetieth year of his age, exhibiting a striking proof how 
much calm pursuits, with a mind pure and at ease, contribute to prolong the 
period of human existence. 

Walton is celebrated as a biographer, and particularly as an angler. His 
first work was the "Life of Dr. John Donne," published in 1640. On the 
death of Sir Henry Wotton, he published a collection of his works, with a life 
prefixed. His next life was that of Dr. Richard Hooker, author of the " Ec- 
clesiastical Polity ;" and soon after he wrote the life of George Herbert. All 

weakness and ignorance ? of how little has man, at his best estate, to boast f what folly in him to 
glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions ?" 

" Well I" exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school, "my education is at Inst finished : in- 
deed it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, any thing were left incomplete. Hap- 
pily that is all over now; and I have nothing to do but to exercise my various accomplishments. 

u Let me see !— as to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if possible, with more fluency 
tnan English. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very well; as well, at least, and better, 
than any of my friends ; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have learned till I am 
perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to play when we have 
company. I must still continue to practise a little ; — the only thing, I think, that I need now to im- 
prove myself in. And then there are my Italian songs 1 which everybody allows I sing with tastev 
and, as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that I can. 

"My drawings are universally admired; especially the shells and flowers; which are beautiful, 
certainly; besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. 

"And then my dancing and waltzing! in which our master himself owned that he could take me 
no further I— just the figure for it, certainly ; it would be unpardonable if I did not excel. 

" As to common things, geography, and history, and poetry, and philosophy, thank my stars, I 
have got jirough them all I so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but atao 
thoroughly well informed. 

''Well, to be sure how much have I fagged through; the only wonder is, that one head can con> 
tain it all t" 



1660-1685.] walton. 303 

these were collected in 1670, and published in one volume. 1 It was one of 
Dr. Johnson's most favorite books. 

But the work by which he is most known is, " The Complete Angler, ot 
Contemplative Man's Recreation," a work, which, to use the words of Sir 
Harris Nicolas, " whether considered as a treatise on the art of angling, or a 
beautiful pastoral, abounding in exquisite descriptions of rural scenery, in 
sentiments of the purest morality, and in unaffected love of the Creator and 
his works, has long been ranked among the most popular compositions in oui 
language." In writing it, he says, he made a " recreation of a recreation," 
and, by mingling innocent mirth and pleasant scenes with the graver parts 
of his discourse, he designed it as a picture of his own disposition. The work 
is, indeed, essentially autobiographical in spirit and execution. It is in the 
form of a dialogue ; a Hunter and a Falconer are introduced as parties in it, 
but the whole interest of the piece centres in the venerable and complacent 
Piscator. The three meet accidentally near London, on a " fine fresh May" 
morning, and they agree each to "commend his recreation" or favorite pur- 
suit. Piscator allows the Falconer 2 to take the lead, who thus commends the 
sport of his choice : — 

And first for the element that I use to trade in, which is the air ; 
an element of more worth than weight, an element that doubtless 
exceeds both the earth and water : for though I sometimes deal 
in both, yet the air is most properly mine ; I and my hawks use 
that, and it yields us most recreation : it stops not the high soar- 
ing of my noble, generous falcon : in it she ascends to such an 
height as the dull eyes of beasts and fish are not able to reach to ; 
their bodies are too gross for such high elevations. In the air, my 
troops of hawks soar up on high, and when they are lost in the 
sight of men, then they- attend upon and converse with the gods. 
Therefore I think my eagle is so justly styled Jove's servant in 
ordinary : and that very falcon, that I am now going to see, de- 
serves no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight endangers 
herself, like the son of Daedalus, to have her wings scorched by 

1 "The Lives of Dr. John Donne; Sir Henry Wotton; Mr. Richard Hooker; Mr. George Herbert 
and Dr. Robert Sanderson, by Izaak Walton ; with Notes and the Life of the Author by Thomas 
Zouch, D. D." Best edition of a most admirable book. 

2 Falconry, or the art of training hawks so that they would catch other birds, was a favorite sport 
with the English down to the middle of the seventeenth century'. During the reigns of Elizabeth 
and James I., the rage for it was so universal, that no one could have the smallest pretensions to the 
character of a gentleman who kept not a "cast" of hawks; which term was applied to any num- 
ber of hawks kept by one person, and was no more definite than the term "pack" applied to hounds. 
It was a very expensive diversion, and frequently involved those who were not opulent in utter 
i uin. For instance, in the reign of James I., a person gave one thousand pounds for a cast of hawks 
the training of hawks, as might well be supposed, was a work of great labor and difficulty, and ht 
who possessed great skill in the art was highly prized. They were taught to render perfect obe 
(lience to the voice, and this was called "manning," or "luring;" and to fly after different birds, 
which was called "flying." When not flying at their game they were "hooded," having a little cap 
drawn over their head. When taken upon the "fist," the term used for carrying them m the hand, 
they had straps of leather, called "jesses," put about their legs, to which bells were also attached- 
To one of the "jesses" was tied a long thread, by which the bird was drawn back, aftor being per- 
mitted to fly, which was called the " reclaiming" of the hawk. For a more full accoun' of this diver 
Bion, read Drake's "Shakspe?re and his Times," vol. i. p. 255—272. 



304 WALTON. [CHARLES II. 

the sun's heat, she flies so near it ; hut her mettle makes her 
careless of danger ; for then she heeds nothing, hut makes her 
nimble pinions cut the fluid air, and so makes her highway over 
the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and in her glorious 
career looks with contempt upon those high steeples and magnifi- 
cent palaces which we adore and wonder at ; from which height 
I can make her to descend by a word from my mouth, which she 
both knows and obeys, to accept of meat from my hand, to own 
me for her master, to go home w T ith me, and be willing the next 
day to afford me the like recreation. 

Nay more, the very birds of the air, those that be not hawks, 
are both so many, and so useful and pleasant to mankind, that I 
must not let them pass without some observations. * * * 
As first, the lark, when she means to rejoice ; to cheer herself and 
those that hear her, she then quits the earth, and sings as she as- 
cends higher into the air ; and having ended her heavenly em- 
ployment, grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to 
the dull earth, which she would not touch but from necessity. 1 

How do the blackbird and thrassel with their melodious voices 
bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed months 
warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can reach to ! 

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular sea- 
sons, as namely, the leverock, the tit-lark, the little linnet, and the 
honest robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead. 

But the nightingale, 9 another of my airy creatures, breathes 
such sweet loud music, out of her little instrumental throat, that it 
might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He that 
at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should hear 
as I have, very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the natural 
rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her voice, might 
well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord, what music hast thou 
provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affbrdest bad men 
such music on earth ! 

This for the birds of pleasure, of which very much more might 
be said. My next shall be of birds of political use : I think 'tis 
not to be doubted that swallows have been taught to carry letters 
between two armies. But it is certain, that when the Turks be- 
sieged Malta or Rhodes, I now remember not which it was, 



1 " What can be more delightful than this description of the lark ! In all the poets there is nothing 
said of the lark or of the nightingale comparable to this exquisite passage of our pious author. The 
Uuassel is the song-thrush; leverock is a name still used in Scotland for the skylark; and the fond- 
ness of the robin for churchyards is well known."— American Editor of Walton. 

2 What a favorite the nightingale has been with the best poets, ancient and modern 1 Homer, Theo- 
critus. Virsil. and Horace have sung its praises; Milton has shown his regard for it in numerous 
passages, and in a sonnet dedicated to it; Thomson, the poet of nature, has celebrated it; and Gray 
nas remembered it in his ode to Spring. But which of these has any thing superior to this most beau 
tiful description of it by our author t 



1660-1685.] walion. 305 

pigeons are then related to carry and recarry letters. And Mr. 
G. Sandys, 1 in his travels, relates it to be done between Aleppo 
and Babylon. But if that be disbelieved, it is not to be doubted 
that the dove was sent out of the ark by Noah, to give him notice 
of land, when to him all appeared to be sea, and the dove proved 
a faithful and comfortable messenger. And for the sacrifices of 
the law, a pair of turtle-doves or young pigeons were as well ac- 
cepted as costly bulls and rams. And when God would feed the 
prophet Elijah, after a kind of miraculous manner, he did it by 
ravens, who brought him meat morning and evening. Lastly, the 
Holy Ghost, when he descended visibly upon our Saviour, did it 
by assuming the shape of a dove. 2 And to conclude this part of 
my discourse, pray remember these wonders were done by birds 
of the air, the element in which they and I take so much pleasure. 
There is also a little contemptible winged creature, an inhabit- 
ant of my aerial element, namely, the laborious bee, of whose pru- 
dence, policy, and regular government of their own commonwealth, 
I might say much, as also of their several kinds, and how useful 
their honey and wax is, both for meat and medicines to mankind ; 
but I will leave them to their sweet labor, without the least dis- 
turbance, believing them to be all very busy at this very time 
amongst the herbs and flowers that we see nature puts forth this 
May-morning. 

Venator then takes his turn — discoursing largely upon the rich bounty of 
the earth, on which he hunts, as " bringing forth herbs, flowers, and fruits, 
both for physic and the pleasure of mankind," and concludes by " enlarging 
himself in the commendation of hunting, and of the noble hound especially, 
as also of the docibleness of dogs in general." After a few preliminary re- 
marks, the " honest angler" thus breaks forth : — 

And now for the water, the element that I trade in. The water 
is the elaest daughter of the creation, the element upon which the 
spirit of God did first move, the element which God commanded 
to bring forth living creatures abundantly ; and without which, 
those that inhabit the land, even all creatures that have breath in 
their nostrils, must suddenly return to putrefaction. Moses, the 
great lawgiver, and chief philosopher, skilled in all the learning 
of the Egyptians, who was called the friend of God, and knew the 
mind of the Almighty, names this element the first in the crea- 
tion ; this is the element upon which the spirit of God did first 
move, and is the chief ingredient in the creation : many philoso- 
phers have made it to comprehend all the other elements, and 
must allow it the chiefest in the mixtion of all living creatures. 
The water is more productive than the earth. Nay, the earth 

1 See a notice of Sandys' Travels, p. 180. 

2 The Evangelist does not mean that the Holy Ghost assumed the form of a dove, but descended 
overiitg, g<-ntly fluttering like a dove. 

U 26* 



306 WALTON. [CHARLES II. 

hath no fruitfulness without showers or dews ; for all the herbs, 
and flowers, and fruits are produced and thrive by the water. 
Then how advantageous is the sea for our daily traffic : without 
which we could not now subsist ! How does it not only furnish 
us with food and physic for the bodies, but with such observations 
for the mind as ingenious persons would not want ! 

Piscator then discourses most interestingly upon the variety of the fish, and 
of its use to man ; not forgetting, in speaking of the honesty of his calling, to 
mention that " the Apostles Peter, James, and John, were all fishers." So ex- 
cellent and convincing is his discourse, that Venator is fairly won over, and 
says to him, " If you will but meet me to-morrow, at the time and place ap- 
pointed, and bestow one day with me in hunting the otter, I will dedicate 
the next two days to wait upon you, and we two, for that time, will do no- 
thing but angle, and talk of fish and fishing." This is agreed to, and in the 
fourth dialogue or chapter, while they are engaged earnestly in angling for 
trout, Piscator thus speaks : — 

Look ! under that broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was last 
this way a-fishing, and the birds in the adjoining groves seemed 
to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice 
seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose 
hill : there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently towards 
their centre, the tempestuous sea ; yet sometimes opposed by rug- 
ged roots and pebble stones, which broke their waves and turned 
them into foam : and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the 
harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, whilst 
others sported themselves in the cheerful sun ; and saw others 
craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. 1 
As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my 
soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily ex- 
pressed it, 

I was for that time lifted above earth ; 

And possess'd joys not promised in my birth. 

As I left this place and entered into the next field, a second 
pleasure entertained me ; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had 
not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with 
any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too 
often do ; but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale ; 
her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it : it was that smooth 
song, which was made by Kit Marlow, 9 now at least fifty years 
ago ; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was 
made by Sir Walter Raleigh, 3 in his younger days. 

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good ; I think 
much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this 
critical age. Look yonder ! on my word, yonder they both be 

1 This beautiful description is almost word for word from Sir Philip Sidney's " Arcadia." S< e p. 81 

2 See p 87. 3 See p. 150. 



1660-1685.] walton. 307 

a-milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to 
sing those two songs to us. 

God speed you, good woman ! I have been a-fishing, and am 
going to Bleak-hall, to my bed ; and having caught more fish 
than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you 
and your daughter, for I use to sell none. 

Milk-woman. Marry, God requite you, sir, and we'll eat it 
cheerfully; and if you come this way a-fishing two months hence, 
a grace of God, I'll give you a syllabub of new verjuice in a new- 
made haycock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her 
best ballads ; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such 
honest, civil, quiet men : in the mean time will you drink a draught 
of red cow's milk? You shall have it freely. 

Piscator. No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy, 
that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we 
will think ourselves still something in your debt : it is but to sing 
us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last past over 
this meadow, about eight or nine days since. 

Milk-woman. What song was it, I pray ? Was it Come, shep- 
herds, deck your herds? or, As at noon Dulcina rested? or, 
Phillida flouts me ? or, Chevy-chase ? or, Johnny Armstrong ? 
or, Troy-town? 

Piscator. No, it is none of those ; it is a song that your daugh 
ter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it. 

Milk-woman. Oh, I know it now ; I learned the first part in my 
golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter, and 
the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or three 
years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me: 
but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as 
we can ; for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first 
part to the gentleman with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second 
when you have done. 

Here follows the milk-maid's song, " Come live with me and be my love." 
after which Venator speaks: 

Venator. Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly 
sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause 
that our good queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk- 
maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with 
fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely 
all the night; and without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin 
does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's milk-maid's wish 1 
upon her, " That she may die in the spring, and, being dead, 
may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding- 
sheet." 



See page 127. 



308 WALTON. [CHARLES II. 

Then comes the milk-maid's mother's answer, « If all the world and love 
were young," which done, the mother adds : 

Well, I have done my song ; but stay, honest anglers, for I will 
make Maudlin to sing you one short song more. Maudlin, sing 
that song that you sung last night when young Coridon the shep- 
herd played so purely on his oaten pipe to you and your cousin 
Betty. 

Maudlin. I will, mother. 

I married a wife of late — 

The more's my unhappy fate, &c. 

Piscator. Well sung, good woman ; I thank you. I'll give you 
another dish of fish one of these days, and then beg another song 
of you. Come, scholar, let Maudlin alone : do not you offer to 
spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine hostess to call us to 
supper. How now ! is my brother Peter come ? 

Hostess. Yes, and a friend with him ; they are both glad to 
hear that you are in these parts, and long to see you - , and long to 
be at supper, for they be very hungry. 

The following most beautiful exhortation to contentment, which comes from 
the mouth of Piscator, is a perfect gem. Who would not be wiser and better 
for reading it every day 1 Walton's own life seems to have illustrated, in an 
eminent degree, the character he here describes — " The meek, who shall 
inherit the earth." 

CONTENTMENT. 

I knew a man that had health and riches, and several houses, 
all beautiful and ready furnished, and would often trouble himself 
and family to be removing from one house to another ; and being 
asked by a friend why he removed so often from one house to 
another, replied, " It was to find content in some of them." But 
his friend, knowing his temper, told him, " If he would find con- 
tent in any of his houses, he must leave himself behind him ; for 
content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul." And this 
may appear, if we read and consider what our Saviour says in St. 
Matthew's Gospel, for he there says, "Blessed be the merciful, for 
they shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in heart, for they 
shall see God. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the 
kingdom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, for they shall 
possess the earth." Not that the meek shall not also obtain 
mercy, and see God, and be comforted, and at last come to the 
kingdom of heaven ; but, in the mean time, he, and he only, pos- 
sesses the earth, as he goes toward that kingdom of heaven, by 
being humble and cheerful, and content with what his good God 
has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining, vexatious 
thoughts that he deserves better ; nor is vexed when he sees 



1660-1685.] leighton. 309 

others possessed of more honor or more riches than his wise God 
has allotted for his share ; but he possesses what he has with a 
meek and contented quietness, such a quietness as makes his very 
dreams pleasing, both to God and himself. 1 



ROBERT LEIGHTON. 1613—1684. 

This eminent divine was born in London in 1613, and educated at the 
University of Edinburgh. He was first settled as a Presbyterian clergyman 
in a small church near Edinburgh ; but being disapproved of by his breth- 
ren, because he did not sufficiently "preach to the times," he resigned his 
living, and soon after was chosen principal of the University of Edinburgh. 
When Charles II. resolved to make the attempt to introduce episcopacy into 
Scotland, Leighton was induced to accept a bishopric, but he chose the hum- 
blest of the whole, that of Dumblane, and would not join in the pompous 
entry of his brethren into Edinburgh. On the contrary, he conducted himself 
with so much moderation and humility, that he won the affections of even the 
most rigid Presbyterians. Subsequently, when the court of Charles II., failing 
to attain their object by cruelty and butchery, resolved to accomplish it 
more in the way of persuasiveness and gentleness, Leighton was induced to 
accept the archbishopric of Glasgow. Still he found it an affair of contention 
little suited to his habits or turn of mind : accordingly he resigned his situation, 
and retired to the county of Sussex in England, where he ended his days in 
1684.2 

The following character of this most excellent man is given by Bishop Bur- 
net, in his "History of His Own Times." "He had great quickness of parts, 
a lively apprehension, with a charming vivacity of thought and expression. 
He had the greatest command of the purest Latin that ever I knew in any 
man. He was a master both of Greek and Hebrew, and of the wlu le com- 
pass of theological learning, chiefly in the study of the Scriptures. But that 
which excelled all the rest was, he was possessed with the highest and no- 
blest sense of divine things that I ever saw in any man. He had no regard 
to his person, unless it was to mortify it by a constant low diet, tuat was like 
a perpetual fast. He had a contempt both of wealth and reputation. He 
seemed to have the lowest thoughts of himself possible, and to desire that all 
other persons should think as meanly of him as he did himself. He bore all 
sorts of ill usage and reproach like a man that took pleasure in it. Hl had 
so subdued the natural heat of his temper, that in a great variety of accidents, 
and in a course of twenty-two years 1 intimate conversation with him, I nevei 
observed the least sign of passion but upon one single occasion. He brought 
himself into so composed a gravity, that I never saw him laugh, and but sel- 
dom smile. And he kept himself in such a constant recollection, that I do 

1 The editions of Walton's " Angler" are almost innumerable; but the most splendid is that by Su* 
Harris Nicolas, published by Pickering, London, 1836, in one tall imperial octavo, with numerous 
plates. But the American reader ha3 nothing more to desire than the beautiful edition recently pub- 
lished by Wiley & Putnam, prepared with great learning and taste by the "American Editor," well 
understood to be the Rev. George W. Bethune, D. D. 

2 Coleridge's " Aids to Reflection" has for its foundation selections from the writings of Leighton s 
tail not, reader, to possess thyself of it, and make the rich treasure thy manual. 



810 LEIGHTON. [CHAKLES II. 

not remember that ever I heard him say one idle word. There was a visible 
tendency in all he said to raise his own mind, and those he conversed with, 
to serious reflections. He seemed to be in a perpetual meditation. His 
preaching had a sublimity both of thought and expression in it. The grace 
and gravity of his pronunciation was such, that few heard him without a very 
sensible emotion : I am sure I never did. His style was rather too fine ; but 
there was a majesty and beauty in it that left so deep an impression, that I 
cannot yet forget the sermons I heard him preach thirty years ago. And yet 
with this he seemed to look on himself as so ordinary a preacher, that while 
he had a cure, he was ready to employ all others. And when he was a 
bishop, he chose to preach to small auditories, and would never give notice 
beforehand : he had, indeed, a very low voice, and so could not be heard by a 
great crowd." 

DESPISE NOT THE LEAST. 

We are to observe and to respect the smallest good that is in 
any. Although a Christian be never so base in his outward con- 
dition in body or mind, of very mean intellectual and natural en- 
dowments ; yet they that know the worth of spiritual things will 
esteem the grace of God that is in him, in the midst of ail those 
disadvantages, as men esteem a pearl, though in a rough shell. 
Grace carries still its o',vn worth, though under a deformed body 
and ragged garments ; yea, though they have but a small measure 
of that either ; yea, the very lowest degree of grace, as a pearl of 
the least size, or a small piece of gold, yet men will not throw it 
away. But, as they say, the least shavings of gold are worth the 
keeping. The Jews would not willingly tread upon the smallest 
piece of paper in their way, but took it up ; for possibly, say they, 
the name of God may be on it. Though there was a little super- 
stition in that, yet truly there is nothing but good religion in it, if 
we apply it to men. Trample not on any ; there may be some 
work of grace there that thou knowest not of. The name of God 
may be written upon that soul thou treadest on. 

THE BEASTS WITHIN US. 

What, you will say, have I beasts within me ? Yes ; you have 
beasts, and a vast number of them. And that you may not think 
I intend to insult you, is anger an inconsiderable beast, when it 
barks in your heart ? What is deceit, when it lies hid in a cun- 
ning mind ; is it not a fox ? Is not the man who is furiously bent 
upon calumny, a scorpion? Is not the person who is eagerly set 
on resentment and revenge, a most venomous viper? What 
do you say of a covetous man ; is he not a ravenous wolf? And 
is not the luxurious man, as the prophet expresses it, a neighing 
horse ? Nay, there is no wild beast but is found within us. And 
do you consider yourself as lord and prince of the wild beasts, be- 
cause you command those that are without, though you never 



1660-1685.] leighton. 311 

think of subduing or setting bounds to those that are within you ? 
What advantage have you by your reason, which enables you to 
overcome lions, if, after all, you yourself are overcome by anger ? 
To what purpose do you rule over the birds, and catch them with 
gins, if you yourself, with the inconstancy of a bird, or hurried 
hither and thither, and sometimes flying high, are ensnared by 
pride, sometimes brought down and caught by pleasure ? But, as 
it is shameful for him who rules over nations to be a slave at 
home, will it not be, in like manner, disgraceful for you, who ex- 
ercise dominion over the beasts that are without you, to be subject 
to a great many, and those of the worst sort, that roar and domi- 
neer in your distempered mind ? 

ALL CHRISTIANS, PREACHERS. 

What the apostles were in an extraordinary way befitting the 
first annunciation of a religion for all mankind, this all teachers of 
moral truth, who aim to prepare for its reception by calling the 
attention of men to the law in their own hearts, may, without pre- 
sumption, consider themselves to be, under ordinary gifts and cir- 
cumstances : namely, ambassadors for the Greatest of Kings, and 
upon no mean employment, the great Treaty of Peace and Recon- 
cilement betwixt Him and Mankind. 

TEMPERANCE. 

As excessive eating or drinking both makes the body sickly 
and lazy, fit for nothing but sleep, and besots the mind, as it clogs 
up with crudities the way through which the spirits should pass, 
bemiring them, and making them move heavily, as a coach in a 
deep way ; thus doth ail immoderate use of the world and its de- 
lights wrong the soul in its spiritual condition, makes it sickly and 
feeble, full of spiritual distempers and inactivity, benumbs the 
graces of the Spirit, and fills the soul with sleepy vapors, makes it 
grow secure and heavy in spiritual exercises, and obstructs the 
way and motion of the Spirit of God, in the soul. Therefore, if 
you would be spiritual, healthful, and vigorous, and enjoy much 
of the consolations of Heaven, be sparing and sober in those of the 
earth ; and what you abate of the one, shall be certainly made up 
in the other. 

THE HEART THE GREAT REGULATOR. 

To set the outward actions right, though with an honest inten- 
tion, and not so to regard and find out the inward disorder of the 
heart, whence that in the actions flows, is but to be still putting 
the index of a clock right with your finger, while it is foul, or out 
of order within, which is a continual business, and does no good. 
Oh ! but a purified conscience, a soul renewed and refined in its 



312 ANNE KILLEGREW. [CHARLES II. 

temper and affections, will make things go right without, in all 
the duties and acts of our callings. 

A CONTRACTED SPHERE NO SECURITY AGAINST WORLDLINESS. 

The heart may he engaged in a little husiness as much, if thou 
watch it not, as in many and great affairs. A man may drown 
in a little brook or pool, as well as in a great river, if he be down 
and plunge himself into it, and put his head underwater. Some 
care thou must have, that thou mayest not care. Those things that 
are thorns indeed, thou must make a hedge of them, to keep out 
those temptations that accompany sloth, and extreme want that 
waits on it ; but let them be the hedge : suffer them not to grow 
within the garden. 



ANNE KILLEGREW. Died 1685. 



This very accomplished young woman, whom Dryden has immortalized, 
was the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Henry Killegrew, one of the prebendaries 
of Westminster. She gave strong indications of genius at a very early age, 
and became equally eminent in the sister arts of poetry and painting, as well 
as distinguished for her unblemished virtue and exemplary piety, amid the 
seductions of a licentious court. She was one of the maids of honor to the 
Duchess of York, but was cut off in the midst of her usefulness and fame, 
falling a victim to the small-pox in the summer of 1685, in her twenty-fifth 
year. 

THE DISCONTENT. 



Here take no care, take here no care, my Muse, 

Nor aught of art or labor use : 
But let thy lines rude and unpolish'd go, 

Nor equal be their feet, nor numerous let them flow. 

The ruggeder my measures run when read, 
They'll livelier paint th' unequal paths fond mortals tread. 
"Who when th' are tempted by the smooth ascents 

Which flattering hope presents, 
Briskly they climb, and great things undertake ; 
But fatal voyages, alas ! they make : 

For 'tis not long before their feet 

Inextricable mazes meet ; 

Perplexing doubts obstruct their way ; 

Mountains withstand them of dismay; 

Or to the brink of black despair them lead, 
Where s nought their ruin to impede : 

In vain for aid they then to reason call, 

Their senses dazzle, and their heads turn round, 
The sight does all their powers confound, 
And headlong down the horrid precipice they fall : 

Where storms of sighs for ever blow, 

Where rapid streams of tears do flow, 



1^9-1685.] ANNE KILLEGREW. 313 

Which drown them in a briny flood. 
My Muse, pronounce aloud, there's nothing good, 

Nought that the world can show, 

Nought that it can bestow. 
ii. 
Not boundless heaps of its admired clay, 

Ah ! too successful to betray, 

When spread in our frail virtue's way : 
For few do run with so resolved a pace, 
That for the golden apple will not lose the race. 
And yet not all the gold the vain would spend, 

Or greedy avarice would wish to save, 
Which on the earth refulgent beams doth send, 

Or in the sea has found a grave, 
Join'd in one mass, can bribe sufficient be, 
The body from a stern disease to free, 

Or purchase for the mind's relief 
One moment's sweet repose, when restless made by griefj 
But what may laughter more than pity move : 

When some the price of what they dearest love 

Are masters of, and hold it in their hand, 

To part with it their hearts they cant command : 

But choose to miss, what miss'd does them torment, 

And that to hug affords them no content. 

Wise fools, to do them right, we these must hold, 

Who Love depose, and homage pay to Gold. 

IV. 

But, oh, the laurell'd fool ! that doats on fame, 

Whose hope 's applause, whose fear 's to want a name, 

Who can accept for pay 

Of what he does, what others say, 
Exposes now to hostile arms his breast, 
To toilsome study then betrays his rest ; 
Now to his soul denies a just content, 
Then forces on it what it does resent ; 
And all for praise of fools ! for such are those, 
Which most of the admiring crowd compose. 
famish'd soul, which such thin food can feed ! 
O wretched labor, crown'd with such a meed ! 
Too loud, Fame ! thy trumpet is, too shrill 

To lull a mind to rest, 

Or calm a stormy breast, 

Which asks a music soft and still. 

'Twas not Amalek's vanquish'd cry, 
Nor Israel's shouts of victory, 
That could in Saul the rising passion lay ; 
'Twas the soft strains of David's lyre the evil spirit chasfid away 

TI. 

Is there that earth by human foot ne'er press'd ? 
That air which never yet by human breast 

Respired, did life supply? 

Oh ! thither let me fly ! 
Where from the world at such a distance set, 
All that's past, present, and to come, I may forget ;— ■ 
27 



314 WALLER. [JAMES IT. 

The lover's sighs, and the afflicted's tears, 
Whate'er may wound my eyes or ears ; 

The grating noise of private jars, 

The horrid sound of public wars, 

Of babbling fame the idle stories, 

The short-lived triumph's noisy glories, 

The curious nets the subtle weave, 

The word, the look that may deceive. 
No mundane care shall more affect my breast, 

My profound peace shake or molest : 
But stupor, like to death, my senses bind, 

That so I may anticipate that rest 
"Winch only in my grave I hope to find. 



EDMUND WALLER. 1605—1687. 

Edmund Waller hardly deserves a place among the best names in Eng 
lish literature, either as a poet or as a man ; and in giving him a small space 
here, I yield my own judgment to that of Dryden and Pope. He was born 
in 1605, studied at Cambridge, and was admitted into parliament as early a? 
his eighteenth year. In political life he was a mere time-server, veering from 
the king to the parliament, and from the parliament to the king, as each 
might happen for the time to possess the ascendency. As a member of par- 
liament he at first took the popular side, but soon after he joined in a plot to 
let the king's forces into the city, for which he was tried and sentenced to one 
year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of £10,000, and it is said that he spent 
three times that sum in bribes. He acquired the means to do this from hav- 
ing married in 1630 a rich heiress of London, who died the same year. After 
his release from prison he went to France, where it is said he lived on the 
proceeds of his wife's jewels which he took with him. At the Restoration he 
returned, and wrote a congratulatory address to Charles II., as he had before 
done to Cromwell ; and when the monarch frankly told him how inferior the 
verses in his own praise were to those addressed to his predecessor, the hol- 
low-hearted, selfish sycophant replied, " Poets, sire, succeed better in fiction 
than in truth." 

Of his conduct when in parliament, Bishop Burnet says, " He never laid 
the business of the House to heart, being a vain and empty, though a witty 
man." On the accession of James II., though eighty years of age, he waa 
elected representative for a borough in Cornwall ; but he did not live to wit- 
ness the glorious Revolution, having died the year before, October 21, 1687. 

As a poet, Waller is certainly " smooth," as Pope styles him, and compara 
tively destitute of that affectation which characterizes most of his contempo- 
raries. "If he rarely sinks, he never rises very high; and we find much good 
sense and selection, much skill in the mechanism of language and metre, 
without ardor and without imagination. In his amorous poetry he has little 
passion or sensibility ; but he is never free and petulant, never tedious, and 
never absurd. His praise consists much in negations." l The following is 
ct portion of what I deem his best piece, his Eulogy on Cromwell. " Of 
these lines," says Dr. Johnson, « some are grand, some are graceful, and all 
are musical." 

1 HaUam's "Introduction to the Literature of Europe," ii. 372, Harper's edition 



1685-1688.] waller. 315 

A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR 

While with a strong, and yet a gentle hand, 

You bridle faction, and our hearts command ; 

Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, - 

Make us unite, and make us conquer too : 

Let partial spirits still aloud complain ; 

Think themselves injured that they cannot reign ; 

And own no liberty, but where they may 

Without control upon their fellows prey. 

Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face 

To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race, 

So has your Highness, raised above the rest, 

Storms of ambition tossing us, represt. 

Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, 

Restored by you, is made a glorious state ; 

The seat of empire, where the Irish come, 

And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom. 

The sea's our own : and now, all nations greet, 

With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet : 

Your power extends as far as winds can blow, 

Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 

Heaven (that hath placed this island to give iaw, 

To balance Europe, and her states to awe) 

In this conjunction doth on Britain smile ; 

The greatest Leader, and the g-reatest Isle ! 

Hither the oppressed shall henceforth resort, 

Justice to crave, and succor, at your Court ; 

And then your Highness, not for ours alone, 

But for the world's Protector shall be known. 

****** 

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds ; 

Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds : 

Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown, 

Could never make this island all her own. 

****** 

Your never-failing sword made war to cease ; 

And now you heal us with the acts of peace : 

Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, 

Invite affection, and restrain our rage. 

Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won, 

Than in restoring such as are undone : 

Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, 

But man alone can ^vhom he conquers, spare. 

To pardon, willing ; and to punish, loath ; 

You strike with one hand, but you heal with both. 

Lifting up all that prostrate he, you grieve 

You cannot make the dead again to live. 

****** 

Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace 

A mind proportion'd to such things as these ; 

How such a ruling spirit you could restrain, 

And practise first over yourself to reign. 



310 WALLER. [JAMES II. 

Your private life did a just pattern give. 

How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should live ; 

Born to command, your Princely virtues slept, 

Like humble David's, while the flock he kept 

But when your troubled country call'd you forth, 

Your flaming courage and your matchless worth, 

Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend, 

The fierce contention gave a prosperous end. 

Still as you rise, the state, exalted too, 

Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you ; 

Changed like the world's great scene ! when, without noise, 

The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys. 

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory 

Run, with amazement we should read your story: 

But living virtue, all achievements past, 

Meets envy still to grapple with at last. 

****** 

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, 

And every conqueror creates a Muse : 

Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing ; 

But there, my Lord ! we'll bays and olive bring 

To crown your head : while you in triumph ride 
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside: 
While all your neighbor-princes unto you, 
Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow. 

Of his shorter pieces, the following has been pronounced "one of the most 
graceful poems of an age from which a taste for the highest poetry was fast 
vanishing." 

Go, lovely rose ! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows 

When I resemble her to thee, 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
Tell her that's young, 

And shuns to have her graces spied, 
That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide, 

Thou must have uncommended died. 
Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired : 
Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 
Then die ! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee, 

How small a part of time they share 

That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



1685-1688.] bunyan. 317 

JOHN BUNYAN. 1628—1688. 

Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 

Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; 

Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, 

May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; 

Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 

Speaking in parables his slighted word ; 

I name thee not, lest so despised a name 

Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame ; 

Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, 

That mingles all my brown with sober gray, 

Revere the man, whose pilgrim marks the road, 

And guides the progress of the soul to God. — Cowpek. 

With what pleasure do we turn from the character of Waller, to tha nevei 
to-be-forgotten and ever-to-be-revered name — John Bunyan, the poor "tinker 
of Bedford." If there was danger in Cowper's time of "moving a sneer" at 
the mention of his name, there is none now ; for it is doubtful whether, within 
the last fifty years, more editions have been published of any one book in the 
English language, the Bible excepted, than of Pilgrim's Progress. 

John Bunyan was born in the village of Elston, near Bedford, in the year 
1628. His father was a brazier or tinker, and the son was brought up to the 
same trade. Though his parents were extremely poor, they put him to the 
best school they could afford, and thus he learned to read and write. He says 
of himself, that he was early thrown among vile companions, and initiated 
into profaneness, lying, and all sorts of boyish vice and ungodliness. Thus 
plainly he speaks of himself in view of his early sins, but it is just to say that 
to drinking and to licentiousness in its grossest forms, he was never addicted. 
He married very early, at the age of nineteen. « My mercy was," he says, 
" to light upon a wife whose father was counted godly." Who can tell the 
happy influence that this connection exerted over him? And how vastly 
would the sum of human happiness be increased, if, in choosing a companion 
for life, moral and religious character were regarded more, and worldly cir- 
cumstances less. Soon after this, Bunyan left off his profanity, and began to 
think more seriously. " My neighbors were amazed," he says, " at this my 
great conversion from prodigious profaneness to something like a moral life : 
they began to praise, to commend, and to speak well of me." Flattered by 
these commendations, and proud of his imagined godliness, he concluded that 
the Almighty " could not choose but be now pleased with him. Yea, to re- 
late it in mine own way, I thought no man in England could please God bet 
ter than I." 

He was awakened from this self-righteous delusion by accidentally over- 
aearing the discourse of three or four poor women, who were sitting at a door 
in the sun, in one of the streets of Bedford, " talking about the things of God " 
What especially struck him was, that they conversed about matters of reli- 
gion " as if joy did make them speak," and " as if they had found a new 
world." He was most deeply impressed by this, and carried the words of 
these poor women with him wherever he went. His spiritual conflict was 
long, and attended with many and sore temptations; but God heard bis 
prayer ; 1 his views of truth became clear, and in 1653, when twenty-five years 

1 "O Lord, I am a fool, and not able to know the truth from error; Lord, leave me not to my own 
blindness. Lord, I lay my soul only at thy feet ; let me not be deceived, I humbly beseech thee." 
Such a prayer was never made in vain. 

27* 



318 BUNYAN. [JAMES II. 

of age, he joined the Baptist church at Bedford. He occasionally addressed 
small meetings of the church, and at their urgent request, so full of power and 
unction did they deem his preaching, when their pastor died in 1655, he was 
desired by them to fill, for a time, his place. He did so, and also preached in 
other places, and attiacted great attention. But " bonds and imprisonments 
awaited him." He had, for five or six years, without any interruption, freely 
preached the gospel; but, in November, 1660, he was taken up by a warrant 
from a justice, who resolved, as he said, "to break the neck of such meetings." 
Such was one of the first-fruits of the Restoration. The bill of indictment 
against him ran to this effect : " That John Bunyan, of the town of Bedford, 
laborer, hath devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church • to 
hear divine service, and is a common upholder of several unlawful meetings 
and conventicles," &cy*"* 

The result was, of course, that he was convicted ; and accordingly he was 
sent to Bedford jail, where he was confined for twelve long years, lest, like 
the great apostle of the Gentiles, he should persuade and " turn away much 
people." But how impotent is the rage of man ! " He that sitteth in the 
heavens shall laugh, the Lord shall have them in derision." In the inscruta- 
ble purposes of Providence, this was the very way designed for this humble 
individual to do the greatest amount of good. It was there, in the damps of 
his prison-house, that he, ignorant of classic lore, but deeply read in the word 
of God, composed a work full of the purest spirit of poetry ; caught indeed 
from no earthly muse, but from the sacred volume of inspiration : — a work 
which is read with delight by all, — by the man of the world, who has no 
sympathy with its religious spirit, and by the Christian, who has the key to it 
in his own heart ; a work which has been the delight of youth, and the solace 
of age ; a work which has given comfort to many a wounded spirit, which 
has raised many a heart to the throne of God. What an illustrious instance 
of the superiority of goodness over learning! Who now reads the learned 
wits of the reign of Charles the Second? Who, comparatively, reads even 
Dryden, or Tillotson, or Barrow, or Boyle, or Sir William Temple ? Who has 
not read, who will not read the immortal epic of John Bunyan 1 ? Who does 
not, who will not ever, with Cowper, 

" Revere the man whose pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the progress of the soul to God %" 

What an affecting account he gives of his feelings during his imprison- 
ment! "I found myself a man encompassed with infirmities: the parting 
with my wife and poor children hath often been to me in this place as the 
pulling the flesh from the bones ; and that not only because I am somewhat 
too fond of these great mercies, but also because I should have after brought 
to my mind the many hardships, miseries, and wants that my poor family 
was likely to meet with, should I be taken from them, especially my poor 
blind child, who lay nearer my heart than all beside. Oh! the thoughts of 
the hardship I thought my poor blind one might undergo, would break my 
heart to pieces. Poor child ! thought I, what sorrow thou art like to have for 
thy portion in this world! Thou must be beaten, must beg, suffer hunger, 
cold, nakedness, and a thousand calamities, though I cannot now endure 
the wind should blow upon thee. But yet recalling myself, thought I, I 
must venture you all with God, though it goeth to the quick to leave you." 
What a heavenly spirit ! what true sublimity of character does such languaga 
display ! 

l Meaning, of course, the "established" church. 



1685-1688.] bunyan. 319 

The only books that Bunyan had with him in prison, were the Bible and 
Fox's Book of Martyrs. What use he made of the former the wide world 
knows, in that immortal fruit of his imprisonment— the "Pilgrim's Pro- 
gress." Well is it that wicked men, persecutors, and oppressors cannot chain 
the mind: 

" The oppressor holds 
His body bound; but knows not what a range 
His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
And, that to bind him is a vain attempt, 
Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells." 

COWPER. 

He was not released from prison till 1672. But no sooner was he out than, 
like the early apostles after their imprisonment, he entered at once on his 
Great Master's work, preaching his word not only to his former congregation, 
but wherever he went. Every year he paid a visit to his friends in London, 
where his reputation was so great that thousands flocked to hear him ; and if 
but a day's notice were given, the meeting-house could not hold half the peo- 
ple that attended. It is said that Dr. Owen was among his occasional audi- 
tors ; and an anecdote is on record, that, being asked by Charles II. how a 
learned man, such as he was, could " sit and hear an illiterate tinker prate," 
he replied : « May it please your majesty, could I possess that tinker's abilities 
for preaching, I would most gladly relinquish all my learning." He continued 
his labors until 1688, when, having taken a violent cold in a rain-storm, 
while on a journey to preach, he died August 12th, in the 61st year of 
his age. 

Bunyan was a voluminous writer, having written, it is said, as many books 
as he was years old. Of these, the Holy War would have immortalized him, 
had be written nothing else. The title of this is, " The Holy War made by 
King Shaddai upon Diabolus, for the Regaining the Metropolis of the World, 
or the Losing and Retaking of Mansoul." Here the fall of man is typified by 
the capture of the flourishing city of Mansoul by Diabolus, the enemy of its 
rightful sovereign, Shaddai or Jehovah ; whose son Immanuel recovers it after 
a tedious siege. Some of his other works are, " Grace abounding to the Chief 
of Sinners," being an account of his own life : " The Doctrine of the Law and 
Grace unfolded :" " The Life and Death of Mr. Badman," in the form of a dia- 
logue, giving an account of the different stages of a wicked man's life, and 
of his miserable death : " The Barren Fig Tree, or the Doom and Downfall 
of the fruitless Professor :" " One Thing is Needful :" " A Discourse touching 
Prayer," &c. 

But his great work, and that by which he will ever best be known, is " Tho 
Pilgrim's Progress," an allegorical view of the life of a Christian, his difficul- 
ties, temptations, encouragements, and ultimate triumph. This work is so 
universally known as to render all comment unnecessary. No book has re- 
ceived such general commendation. As to the number of editions through 
which it has passed, it is impossible to form a conjecture. Mr. Southey thinks 
it probable that " no other book in the English language 1 has obtained so con- 
stant and so wide a sale," and that " there is no European language intc 
which it has not been translated." Dr. Johnson, Cowper. Scott, Byron, Words- 
worth, Southey, Montgomery, have united to extol this truly original work : 
indeed, pages might be occupied with the encomiums with which poets and 

1 The Bible, of course, excepted, and probably Watts's Psalms and Hymns. 



b20 BUNYAN. [JAMES II. 

critics have delighted to honor this once obscure and despised religious 
writer. 1 

We will make but one extract from the Pilgrim's Progress, as it is in the 
hands of almost every one, and that will be the case of 

CHRISTIAN IN DOUBTING CASTLE. 

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, 
called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, 
and it was in his grounds they now were sleeping ; wherefore he, 
getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his 
fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. 
Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake, and asked 
mem whence they were, and what they did in his grounds ? 
They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their 
way. Then said the giant, You have this night trespassed on 
me, by trampling and lying on my ground, and therefore you must 
go along with me. So they were forced to go, because he was 
stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew 
themselves in fault. The giant, therefore, drove them before him, 
and put them into his castle, in a very dark dungeon, nasty, and 
stinking to the spirits of those two men. Here they lay from 
Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, 
or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did : they were 
therefore here in evil case, and were far from friends and ac- 
quaintance. Now, in this place Christian had double sorrow, be- 
cause it was through his unadvised haste that they were brought 
into this distress. 2 

Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence : 
so when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done, 

1 The poet Southey has written his life; but he was not qualified for it, having little sympathy with 
Bunyan as a Reformer. Read an excellent article in the 79th number of the North American Review : 
also, another in Macaulay's Miscellanies, i. 428. From the latter I cannot but extract the following : 
—"The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who 
wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of 
the common people. There is not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, 
which would puzzle the rudest peasant. We have observed several pages which do not contain a 
single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer has said more exactly what he meant to say. 
For magnificence, for pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose of 
the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of plain working-men, was per- 
fectly sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame of 
the unpolluted English language, no book which shows so well how rich that language is in its own 
proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed." And again: "Wa 
are not afraid to say, that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of 
the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a 
very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the ' Paradise Lost,* the other the ' Pilgrim's 
Progress.' " 

2 "What ! these highly favored Christians in Doubting Castle ! Is it possible, after having travelled 
so far in the way of salvation, seen so many glorious things in the way, experienced so much of the 
vrrace ana love of their Lord, and having so often proved his faithfulness, yet after all this to get 
into Doubting Castle I Is not this strange ? No, it is common ! the strongest Christians are liable to 
err, and get out of the way, and then to be beset with very great and distressing doubts." 



1685-1688.] bunyan. 321 

to wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into 
his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked hei 
also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him 
what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound, 
and he told her. Then she counselled him, that when he arose 
in the morning, he should beat them without mercy. So when he 
arose, he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, and goes down 
into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating them as if 
they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste : 
then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort 
that they were not able to help themselves, or turn them upon the 
floor. This done, he withdraws, and leaves them there to condole 
their misery, and to mourn under their distress: so all that day 
they spent their time in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. 
The next night she talked with her husband about them further, 
and understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to 
counsel them to make away with themselves. So when morning 
was come, he goes to them in a surly manner, as before, and per- 
ceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given 
them the day before, he told them, that since they were never like 
to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to 
make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison : 
For why, said he, should you choose life, seeing it is attended 
with so much bitterness ? But they desired him to let them go ; 
with which he looked ugly upon them, and rushing to them, had 
doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one 
of his fits, (for he sometimes in sun-shiny weather fell into fits,) 
and lost for a time the use of his hands : wherefore he withdrew, 
and left them, as before, to consider what to do. Then did the pri- 
soners consult between themselves whether it was best to take his 
counsel or no : and thus they began to discourse : — 

Chr. Brother, said Christian, what shall we do ? The life that 
we now live is miserable. For my part, I know not whether it is 
best to live thus, or die out of hand. " My soul chooseth strang- 
ling rather than life," and the grave is more easy for me than this 
dungeon ! Shall we be ruled by the giant ? 

Hope. Indeed our present condition is dreadful, and death would 
be far more welcome to me, than thus for ever to abide ; but let 
us consider, the Lord of the country to which we are going hath 
said, " Thou shalt do no murder :" no, not to any man's person ; 
much more then are we forbidden to take his counsel to kill our- 
selves. Besides, he that kills another can but commit murder on 
r is own body ; but for one to kill himself, is to kill body and soul 
at once. And, moreover, my brother, thou talkest of ease in the 
grave ; but hast thou forgotten the hell, whither for certain the 
murderers go? For no murderer hath eternal life. And let 
X 



322 BUNYAN. [JAMES II. 

us consider, again, that all laws are not m the hand of Giant De- 
spair : others, so far as I can understand, have been taken by him 
as well as we, and yet have escaped out of his hands. Who 
knows but that God, who made the world, may cause that Giant 
Despair may die ; or that, at some time or other, he may forget 
to lock us in ; or that he may in a short time have another of his 
fits before us, and may lose the use of his limbs ? and if ever that 
should come to pass again, for my part I am resolved to pluck up 
the heart of a man, and to try my utmost to get from under his 
hand. I was a fool that I did not try to do it before ; but, how- 
ever, my brother, let us be patient, and endure awhile : the time 
may come that he may give us a happy release ; but let us not be 
our own murderers. With these words Hopeful at present did 
moderate the mind of his brother ; so they continued together (in 
the dark) that day in their sad and doleful condition. 

Well, towards the evening, the giant goes down into the dun- 
geon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel ; but when 
he came there he found them alive ; and truly, alive was all ; for 
now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the 
wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but 
breathe. But, I say, he found them alive ; at which he fell into 
a grievous rage, and told them, that seeing they had disobeyed his 
counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been 
born. 

At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell 
into a swoon ; but coming a little to himself again, they renewed 
their discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they 
had best take it or no. Now, Christian again seemed to be for 
doing it ; but Hopeful made his second reply as followeth : — 

Hope. My brother, said he, rememberest thou not how valiant 
thou hast been heretofore ? Apollyon could not crush thee, nor 
could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel in the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death: what hardships, terror, and amazement hast 
thou already gone through, and art thou now nothing but fear? 
Thou seest that I am in the dungeon with thee, a far weaker man 
by nature than thou art ; also this giant has wounded me as well 
as thee, and hath also cut off the bread and water from my mouth, 
and with thee I mourn without the light. But let us exercise a 
little more patience : remember how thou playedst the man at 
Vanity Fair, and wast neither afraid of the chain nor the cage, 
nor yet of bloody death ; wherefore let us (at least to avoid the 
shame that becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with 
patience as well as we can. 

Now, night being come again, and the giant and his wife being 
a-bed, she asked concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken 
his counsel ; to which he replied, They are sturdy rogues ; they 



1685-1688.] bunyan. 323 

choose rather to bear all hardships than to make away with them- 
selves. Then said she, Take them into the castle-yard to-mor- 
row, and show them the bones and skulls of those thou hast already 
despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, 
thou wilt also tear them in pieces, as thou hast done their fellows 
before them. 

So when the morning was come, the giant goes to them again, 
pad takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them as his wife 
had bidden him. These, said he, were pilgrims, as you are, 
once : and they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done : 
and, when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces, and so within ten 
days I will do you ; go, get ye down to your den again ; and with 
that he beat them all the way thither. 

They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, 
as before. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffi- 
dence and her husband the giant were got to bed, they began to 
renew their discourse of their prisoners ; and, withal, the old giant 
wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring 
them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, 
that they live in hope that some will come to relieve them, or that 
they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope 
to escape. And sayest thou so, my dear ? said the giant ; I will 
therefore search them in the morning. 

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and 
continued in prayer till almost break of day. 1 

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half 
amazed, brake out in this passionate speech : What a fool (quoth 
he) am I thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I may as well 
walk at liberty ! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that 
will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle. Then 
said Hopeful, That's good news, good brother ; pluck it out of thy 
bosom and try. 2 

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at 
the dungeon-door, whose bolt (as he turned the key) gave back, 
and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both 
came out. Then he went to the outer door that leads into the 



1 " "What ! pray in custody of Giant Despair, in the midst of Doubting Castle; and when their folly 
brought them there, too 1 Yes. Mind this, ye pilgrims. Ye are exhorted, 'I will that men pray 
everywhere, without doubting.' 1 Tim. ii. 8. We can be in no place but God can hear; nor in any 
circumstance but God is able to deliver from. And be assured, when tno spirit of prayer comes, 
deliverance is nigh at hand. So it was here." 

2 " Precious promise 1 The promises of God in Christ are the life of faith, and the qulckeners of 
prayer. O how oft do we neglect God's great and precious promises in Christ Jesus, whue do'ibts 
and despair keep us prisoners. So it was with these pilgrims : they were kept under hard bondage 
of soul for four days. Hence we see what it is to grieve the Spirit of God, and should dread it ; tor 
he only is the Comforter; and if he witndraws his influences, who or what can comfort us !" 



324 BARCLAY. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

castle-yard, and with his key opened that door also. After, he 
went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too ; but that lock 
went very hard, yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open 
the door to make their escape with speed ; but that gate, as it 
opened, made such a cracking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, 
hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail ; for his 
fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. 
Then they went on, and came to the king's highway, and so were 
safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction. 

Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to con- 
trive with themselves what they should do at that stile to prevent 
those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant 
Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to en- 
grave upon the stile thereof this sentence : — " Over this stile is 
the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who 
despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy 
his holy pilgrims." Many, therefore, that followed after, read 
what was written, and escaped the danger. 1 



ROBERT BARCLAY. 1648—1690. 

Robert Barciat, the distinguished writer of the Society of Friends, was 
born in Elginshire, in the north of Scotland, 2 south-east of the Moray frith, 
December 23, 1648, of a highly respectable family. After receiving the rudi- 
ments of his education at home, he was sent to Paris to pursue his studies 
under the direction of his uncle, who was rector of the Scots' College in that 
capital. It was a dangerous experiment, and might have proved perma- 
nently injurious, had not young Barclay been possessed of the strictest moral 
principles, and the highest sense of filial obligation : for he, by his deportment 
and character, had endeared himself so to his uncle that he offered to make 
him his heir, and to settle a large estate immediately x^pon him, if he would 
remain in France. But his father, knowing that his son was strongly inclined 
to join the Papal church, directed him to return home. He did not hesitate 
between what seemed interest and duty, and at once abandoned all his pros- 
pects of wealth and aggrandizement, to comply with his father's wishes. 
Such filial obedience is never left without a witness. In Barclay's case the 
blessing that attended it was most signal. Had he remained in France, 
though his wealth might have surrounded him with a crowd of flatterers, in 
all probability he would never have been known after his death. But he re- 
turned, and gained a world-wide fame. He returned, and became the ablest 
expounder of a sect, that as a sect has taken the lead of all others in three great 

1 ' Recording our own observations, and the experience we have had in God's dealing with oni 
bouIs, are made of special and peculiar use to our fellow-Christians." 

2 Not in Edinburgh, as stated by William Penn. 



1689-1702.] Barclay. 325 

subjects, inseparably connected with practical 1 Christianity, — Intemperance, 
Slavery, and War. 2 

A short time before young Barclay left France, his father had been con- 
verted to the views and principles of a sect which had existed only ten years 
— the Quakers. On his return, Robert, after giving to the subject a degree of 
thought and investigation almost beyond his years, followed the example of 
his father, though only nineteen. He applied himself diligently to the study 
of the original languages of the Bible, of the Fathers, and of ecclesiastical 
history; and seeing how much the Friends were misunderstood and abused, 
he wrote several works in their defence, and in explanation of their princi- 
ples. But the great work on which his fame rests is entitled " An Apology 
for the true Christian Divinity, as the same is held forth and practised by the 
People called, in scorn, Quakers." The effect produced by this able work 
soon became visible, for it proved beyond dispute that this proscribed sect 
professed a system of theology that was capable of being defended by strong, 
if not unanswerable arguments. Some portions of this work became the 
subject of very animated controversy, not in England only, but on the conti- 
nent. This occasioned Barclay to appear again in defence of his principles. 
He also wrote to vindicate the internal arrangements and government of the 
Friends. He wrote, besides, two treatises on Peace, declaring his opinion that 
all war is indefensible, on account of its incompatibility with the principle of 
universal benevolence. One of these he addressed to the ambassadors of the 
several princes of Europe, then assembled at Nimeguen. 

" The latter years of Robert Barclay's life were spent in the quiet of his 
family, in which his mild and amiable virtues found their happiest sphere of 
exercise. He died October 3, 1690, in the forty-second year of his age — the 
prime of life — his death having been occasioned by a violent fever, which 
came on immediately after his return from a religious visit in some parts of 
Scotland. His moral character was free from every reproach, and his temper 
was so well regulated, that he was never seen in anger. In all the relations 
of life, and in his intercourse with the world, he was conspicuous for the 
exercise of those virtues which are the best test of right principles, and the 
most unequivocal proof of their practical influence." 

The following is a part of the Dedication of his great work, the "Apology," 
to Charles II. It has been justly praised for its high and fearless tone of 
Christian faithfulness and independent truth ; the more to be admired, as it 
was written and published in times of great licentiousness, and servility to the 
reigning monarch. 

DEDICATION TO CHARLES SECOND. 

As it is inconsistent with the truth I bear, so it is far from me 
to use this epistle as an engine to flatter thee, the usual design of 
such works : and therefore I can neither dedicate it to thee, nor 

1 And what other than practical is of any worth? "He shall reward every man according to hia 
works :" Matt. xvi. 27. " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least, ye have done it unto 
Me :" Matt. xxv. 40. " Ye see then how that by works a man is justified, and not by faith only :" 
James ii. 24. "What doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to 
■aralk humbly with thy God?" Micah vi. 8. "If no faith be living nor yet available to justification 
without works, then works are necessary to justification." — Barclay. 

2 The three great scourges of the human race, which have done more than every thing else to 
degrade and brutalize man, and therefore are most diametrically opposed to the principles and teadj- 
tags of Him, who came to bring "peace on earth and good-wii,l to man." 

28 



326 BARCLAY. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

crave thy patronage, as if thereby I might have more confidence 
to present it to the world, or be more hopeful of its success. To 
God alone I owe what I have, and that more immediately in mat- 
ters spiritual, and therefore to Him alone, and to the service of 
His truth, I dedicate whatever work He brings forth in me, to 
whom only the praise and honor appertain, whose truth needs not 
the patronage of worldly princes, His arm and power being that 
alone by which it is propagated, established, and confirmed. * * 

There is no king in the world, who can so experimentally testify 
of God's providence and goodness ; neither is there any, who rules 
so many free people, so many true Christians ; which thing 
renders thy government more honorable, thyself more consider- 
able, than the accession of many nations filled with slavish and 
superstitious souls. 

Thou hast tasted of prosperity and adversity ; thou knowest. 
what it is to be banished thy native country, to be overruled, as 
well as to rule and sit upon the throne ; and being oppressed, thou 
hast reason to know how hateful the oppressor is to both God and 
man: 1 if after all these warnings and advertisements, thou dost 
not turn unto the Lord with all thy heart, but forget Him, who 
remembered thee in thy distress, and give up thyself to follow 
lust and vanity; surely great will be thy condemnation. 

Against which snare, as well as the temptation of those that 
may or do feed thee, and prompt thee to evil; the most excellent 
and prevalent remedy will be, to apply thyself to that light of 
Christ, which shineth in thy conscience, which neither can nor 
will flatter thee, nor suffer thee to be at ease in thy sins ; but doth 
and will deal plainly and faithfully with thee, as those that are 
followers thereof have also done. 

God Almighty, who hath so signally hitherto visited thee with 
His love, so touch and reach thy heart, ere the day of thy visitation 
be expired, that thou mayest effectually turn to Him, so as to 
improve thy place and station for His name. So wisheth, so 
prayetll, 

Thy faithful friend and subject, 

Robert Barclay* 

against titles of honor. 

We affirm positively, that it is not lawful for Christians either 
10 give or receive these titles of honor, as Your Holiness, Your 
Majesty, Your Excellency, Your Eminency, &c. 

l A similar sentiment was expressed by "William Pinckney, in the Maryland House of Delegates in 
1789 : " It will not do thus to talk like philosophers, and, as slaveholders, act like unrelenting 
tyrants; to be perpetually sermonizing it, with liberty for our text, and actual oppression for our 
commentary." So, also, Edward Rushton, in his letter to General Washington : " Man is never so 
truly odious as when he inflicU upon others that which he himself abominates." 



1689-1702.] Barclay. 327 

First, because these titles are no part of that obedience w hich 
is due to magistrates or superiors ; neither doth the giving them 
add to or diminish from that subjection we owe to them, which 
consists in obeying their just and lawful commands, not in titles 
and designations. 

Secondly, we find not that in the Scripture any such titles are 
used, either under the law or the gospel ; but that, in speaking to 
kings, princes, or nobles, they used only a simple compellation, as, 
"O King!" and that without any further designation, save, per- 
haps, the name of the person, as, " O King Agrippa," &c. 

Thirdly, it lays a necessity upon Christians most frequently to 
lie ; because the persons obtaining these titles, either by election 
or hereditarily, may frequently be found to have nothing really in 
them deserving them, or answering to them : as some, to whom it 
is said, " Your Excellency," having nothing of excellency in 
them ; and who is called, " Your Grace," appear to be an enemy 
to grace ; and he who is called " Your Honor," is known to be 
base and ignoble. I wonder what law of man, or what patent, 
ought to oblige me to make a lie, in calling good evil, and evil 
good. I wonder what law of man can secure me, in so doing, 
from the just judgment of God, that will make me count for every 
idle word. And to lie is something more. Surely Christians should 
be ashamed that such laws, manifestly crossing the law of God, 
should be among them. * * * * 

Fourthly, as to those titles of " Holiness," " Eminency," and 
" Excellency," used among the Papists to the pope and cardinals, 
&c. ; and " Grace," " Lordship," and " Worship," used to the 
clergy among the Protestants, it is a most blasphemous usurpa- 
tion. For if they use " Holiness" and " Grace" because these 
things ought to be in a pope or in a bishop, how come they to 
usurp that peculiarly to themselves ? Ought not holiness and 
grace to be in every Christian ? And so every Christian should 
say " Your Holiness," and " Your Grace," one to another. Next, 
how can they in reason claim any more titles than were practised 
and received by the apostles and primitive Christians, whose suc- 
cessors they pretend they are ; and as whose successors (and no 
otherwise) themselves, I judge, will confess any honor they seek 
is due to them ? Now, if they neither sought, received, nor ad- 
mitted such honor nor titles, how came these by them ? If they 
say they did, let them prove it if they can : we find no such thing 
in the Scripture. The Christians speaK to the apostles without 
any such denomination, neither saying, " If it please your Grace, ' 
" your Holiness," nor " your Worship ;" they are neither called 
My Lord Peter, nor My Lord Paul; nor yet Master Peter, no? 
Master Paul ; nor Doctor Peter, nor Doctor Paul ; but singly Peter 
and Paul : and that not only in the Scripture, but for some hun- 



328 BOYLE. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

dreds of years after : so that this appears to be a manifest fruit of 
the apostasy. 1 For if these titles arise either from the office or 
worth of the persons, it will not be denied but the apostJes de- 
served them better than any now that call for them. But the case 
is plain ; the apostles had the holiness, the excellency, the grace ; 
and because they were holy, excellent, and gracious, they neither 
i^ed nor admitted such titles ; but these having neither holiness, 
excellency, nor grace, will needs be so called to satisfy their ambi- 
tious and ostentatious mind, which is a manifest token of their 
hypocrisy. 

Fifthly, as to that title of " Majesty" usually ascribed to princes, 
we do not find it given to any such in the Holy Scripture; but that 
it is specially and peculiarly ascribed unto God. We find in the 
Scripture the proud king Nebuchadnezzar assuming this title to 
himself, who at that time received a sufficient reproof, by a sudden 
judgment which came upon him. Therefore, in all the compella- 
tions used to princes in the Old Testament, it is not to be found, 
nor yet in the New. Paul was very civil to Agrippa, yet he gives 
him no such title. Neither was this title used among Christians 
in the primitive times. 



ROBERT BOYLE. 1626—1692. 



Robert Boyee, the son of Richard Boyle, Earl of Cork, was born at Lis- 
more, in the county of Cork, January 25, 1626. When eight years of age he 
entered Eton School, and having pursued his studies there with great success 
for one so young, he was sent with his brother Francis, who had lately mar- 
ried, to travel upon the continent. At Geneva he and his brother remained 
for some time, and pursued their studies, Robert resuming his mathematics, in 
which he had been initiated at Eton. 

An anecdote, which explains the cause of his first attention to mathematical 
subjects, ought not to be passed over in silence, as it not only indicates the 
early development of his reasoning powers, but exhibits, in a striking manner, 
a general and important fact in education. When at Eton School, and before 
he was ten years of age, while recovering from a severe illness, some ro- 
mances were put into his hands to divert and amuse him. His good habits 
of study were thereby so weakened, that on his restoration to health he found 
it difficult to fix his attention to anyone subject. To recover his former habits, 
he resorted to an expedient certainly remarkable for one so young. He ap- 
plied himself forcibly to "the extraction of the square and cube roots, and es- 
pecially those more laborious operations of algebra which so entirely exact the 

l "The title of Rabbi corresponds with the title 'Doctor of Divinity,' as applied to ministers of 
the gospel; and so tar as I can see, the spirit of the Saviour's command is violated by the reception 
of such a title, as it would have been by their being called Rabbi. It makes a distinction among 
ministers, tending to engender pride and a sense of superiority in those who obtain it ; and envy 
and a sense of iuferiority in those who do not ; and is in its whole spirit and tendency contrary to 
the * simplicity that is in Christ.' " — Albert Barnes. Is not the same argument as strong against 
the title of " Reverend," a word which is found but once in the Scriptures, and there applied to 
t*cd ? Ps. cxi. 9. 



1689-1702.] boyle. 329 

whole mind, that the smallest distraction or heedlessness constrains us to re- 
new our trouble, and re-begin the operation." This had the desired effect. 
It gave also a permanent direction to his talents, and was the commencement 
of that series of philosophical investigations and discoveries which have ren- 
dered his name immortal. 

He quitted Geneva in 1641, and spent the next winter in Florence. Dur- 
ing his stay in this city, the famous astronomer Galileo died at a village in 
the vicinity. He thence visited Rome, Leghorn, and Genoa, and in 1644 he 
returned with his brother to England. He found that his father, who had 
removed from Ireland to Stalbridge, in Dorsetshire, had recently died, and 
that he himself had come into the possession of the manor at Stalbridge, with 
other property. From this time to the end of his life, he appears to have been 
engaged in study. He was one of the first members of the " Invisible Col- 
lege," as he calls it, which, after the Restoration, became the Royal Society. 
In 1654 he took up his residence at Oxford, on account of the favorableness of 
the place to retirement, study, and philosophical intercourse. During his re- 
sidence here he made great improvements in the air-pump, though he did not 
invent it, as some have stated. 

But Boyle did not devote all his time to Namral Philosophy : he gave a por- 
tion of it to the study of the original languages of the Scriptures, and of the 
Scriptures themselves. He also took an interest in every plan for the circula- 
tion of the Word of Truth, and as a member of the East India Company, in 
1676, pressed upon that body the duty of promoting Christianity in the East. 
He continued up to the close of his life to devote himself to the study of phi- 
losophy, and like Newton he will ever be known as a 

" Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
And in his word sagacious." 

He died on the 30th of December, (Old Style,) 1691. 

The writings of Boyle are very voluminous, the greater part being on sub- 
jects of mechanical philosophy; though he wrote not a few on moral subjects. 1 
Of the latter are "Considerations on the Style of the Holy Scriptures;'" "Oc- 
casional Reflections on several Subjects ;" " Considerations about the Recon- 
cilableness of Reason and Religion ;" " The Christian Virtuoso," showing 
that " by being addicted to experimental philosophy, a man is rather assisted 
than indisposed to be a good Christian," &e. As a man, it is said of him by 
a biographer, that " his benevolence, both in action and sentiment, distin- 
guished him from others as much as his acquirements and experiments : and 
that, in an age when toleration was unknown." He has been styled the au- 
thor of the " New or Experimental Philosophy," but it should always be re- 
collected that Bacon pointed out the way. " The excellent Mr. Boyle," says 
Mr. Hughes, 2 " was the person who seems to have been designed by nature 
to succeed to the labors and inquiries of that extraordinary genius, Lord Bacon. 
By innumerable experiments, he in a great measure filled up those plans and 
outlines of science which his predecessor had sketched out. His life was 
spent in the pursuit of nature, through a great variety of forms and changes, 
and in the most rational as well as devout adoration cf its divine Author." 
Bishop Burnet sums up a brilliant eulogium of his character in the following 
strain: — -I will not amuse you with a list of his astonishing knowledge, oi 
of his great performances in this way. They are highly valued all the world 



1 His complete works were published in 1744, by Dr. Birch, 

2 Spectator, No. 554. 

28* 



330 BOYLE. [WILLIAM & MAKY, 

over, and his name u everywhere mentioned with particular characters of 
respect. Few men, if any, have been known to have made so great a com- 
pass, and to have been so exact in all parts of it, as Boyle." 

THE STUDY OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY FAVORABLE TO RELIGION. 

The first advantage that our experimental philosopher, as such, 
hath towards being a Christian, is, that his course of studies con- 
duceth much to settle in his mind a firm belief of the existence, 
and divers of the chief attributes, of God; which belief is, in the 
order of 'things, the first principle of that natural religion which 
itself is pre-required to revealed religion in general, and conse- 
quently to that in particular which is embraced by Christians. 

That the consideration of the vastness, beauty, and regular mo- 
tions of the heavenly bodies, the excellent structure of animals 
and plants, besides a multitude of other phenomena of nature, and 
the subserviency of most of these to man, may justly induce him, 
as a rational creature, to conclude that this vast, beautiful, orderly, 
and (in a word) many ways admirable system of things, that we 
call the world, was framed by an author supremely powerful, wise, 
and good, can scarce be denied by an intelligent and unprejudiced 
considerer. And this is strongly confirmed by experience, which 
witnesseth, that in almost all ages and countries the generality of 
philosophers and contemplative men were persuaded of the exist- 
ence of a Deity, by the consideration of the phenomena of the 
universe, whose fabric and conduct, they rationally concluded, 
could not be deservedly ascribed either to blind chance, or to any 
other cause than a divine Being. 

The works of God are so worthy of their author, that, besides 
the impresses of his wisdom and goodness that are left, as it were, 
upon their surfaces, there are a great many more curious and ex- 
cellent tokens and effects of divine artifice in the hidden and in 
nermost recesses of them ; and these are not to be discovered by 
the perfunctory looks of oscitant and unskilful beholders ; but re- 
quire, as well as deserve, the most attentive and prying inspection 
of inquisitive and well-instructed considerers. And sometimes in 
one creature there may be I know not how many admirable things, 
that escape a vulgar eye, and yet may be clearly discerned by that 
of a true naturalist, who brings with him, besides a more than 
common curiosity and attention, a competent knowledge of ana 
tomy, optics, cosmography, mechanics, and chemistry. But treat 
ing elsewhere purposely of this subject, it may here suffice to say, 
that God has couched so many things in his visible works, that 
the clearer light a man has, the more he may discover of their 
unobvious exquisiteness, and the more clearly and distinctly he 
may discern those qualities that lie more obvious. And the more 
wonderful things he discovers in the works of nature, the more 
auxiliary proofs he meets with po establish and enforce the argu 



1689-1702.] boyle. 331 

ment, drawn from the universe and its parts, to evince that there 
is a God ; which is a proposition of that vast weignt and import- 
ance, that it ought to endear every thing to us that is able to con- 
firm it, and afford us new motives to acknowledge and adore the 
divine Author of things. 

To be told that an eye is the organ of sight, and that this is per- 
formed by that faculty of the mind which, from its function, is 
called visive, will give a man but a sorry account of the instru- 
ments and manner of vision itself, or of the knowledge of that 
Opificer who, as the Scripture speaks, " formed the eye." And 
he that can take up with this easy theory of vision, will not think 
it necessary to take the pains to dissect the eyes of animals, nor 
study the books of mathematicians, to understand vision; and, ac- 
cordingly, will have but mean thoughts of the contrivance of the 
organ, and the skill of the artificer, in comparison of the ideas that 
will be suggested of both of them to him that, being profoundly 
skilled in anatomy and optics, by their help takes asunder the 
several coats, humors, and muscles, of which that exquisite diop 
trical instrument consists ; and having separately considered the 
figure, size, consistence, texture, diaphaneity or opacity, situation, 
and connection of each of them, and their coaptation in the whole 
eye, shall discover, by the help of the laws of optics, how admi- 
rably this little organ is fitted to receive the incident beams of 
light, and dispose them in the best manner possible for completing 
the lively representation of the almost infinitely various objects 

of sight. 

* * * * * * 

It is not by a slight survey, but by a diligent and skilful scru- 
tiny of the works of God, that a man must be, by a rational and 
affective conviction, engaged to acknowledge with the prophet, 
that the Author of nature is " wonderful in counsel, and excellent 
in working." 

DISCRIMINATION NECESSARY IN READING THE SCRIPTURES. 

We should carefully distinguish betAvixt what the Scripture 
itself says, and what is only said in the Scripture. For we must 
not look upon the Bible as an oration of God to men, or as a body 
of laws, like our English statute-book, wherein it is the legislnor 
that all the way speaks to the people ; but as a collection of com- 
posures of very differing sorts, and written at very distant times , 
and of such composures, that though the holy men of God (as St 
Peter calls them) were acted by the Holy Spirit, who both excited 
and assisted them in penning the Scripture, yet there are many 
others, besides the Author and the penmen, introduced speaking 
there. For besides the books of Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, 
Chronicles, the four Evangelists, the Acts of the Apostles, and 



i 

332 BAXTER. [WILLIAM & MA£Y, 

other parts of Scripture that are evidently historical, and wont to 
be so called, there are, in the other books, many passages that de- 
serve the same name, and many others wherein, though they be 
not mere narratives of things done, many sayings and expressions 
are recorded that either belong not to the Author of the Scripture, 
or must be looked upon as such wherein his secretaries personate 
others. So that, in a considerable part of the Scripture, not only 
prophets, and kings, and priests being introduced speaking, but 
soldiers, shepherds, and women, and such other sorts of persons, 
from whom witty or eloquent things are not (especially when they 
speak ex tempore) to be expected, it would be very injurious to 
impute to the Scripture any want of eloquence, that may be noted 
in the expressions of others than its Author. For though, not 
only in romances, but in many of those that pass for true histories, 
the supposed speakers may be observed to talk as well as the his- 
torian, yet that is but either because the men so introduced were 
ambassadors, orators, generals, or other eminent men for parts as 
well as employments ; or because the historian does, as it often 
happens, give himself the liberty to make speeches for them, and 
does not set down indeed what they said, but what he thought fit 
that such persons on such occasions should have said. Whereas 
the penmen of the Scripture, as one of them truly professes, hav- 
ing not followed cunningly devised fables in what they have writ- 
ten, have faithfully set down the sayings, as well as actions, they 
record, without making them rather congruous to the conditions 
of the speakers than to the laws of truth. 



RICHARD BAXTER. 1615—1691. 



Few writers in the English language have obtained a wider fame than the 
celebrated non-conformist 1 divine, Richard Baxter. He was born at Rowdon, 
a small village in Shropshire, on the 12th of November, 1615. Being seri- 
ously impressed at an early age, it was his great desire to enter one of the 
universities, and study for the ministry. But want of means prevented the 
former, though he was enabled to reach the ultimate object of his wishes, by 
studying with a clergyman, Mr. Francis Garbett, who conducted him through 
a course of theology, and gave him much valuable assistance in his general 
reading. In 1638 he received ordination in the Church of England, having 
at that time no scruples on the score of subscription. In 1640 he was invited 
to preach to a congregation at Kidderminster, which invitation he accepted, 
and there labored many years with signal success. When the civil war broke 
out, he sided with the parliament, and of course after the Restoration he had 

l In the year 1662, two years after the Restoration of Charles II., a law was passed, called the Act 
of Uniformity, which enjoined upon every beneficed person, not only to use the Prayer-book, but to 
declare his assent and consent to every part of it, with many other very severe restrictions. It had 
the effect of banishing at once two thousand divines from the pale of the English church, who are 
Calleu " Non -conformists;" of this number was Baxter. 



1689-1702.] Baxter. 333 

his share of the sufferings that attended all the non-conformist divines. On 
the accession of James II, 1685, he was arrested by a warrant from that most 
infamous of men, lord chief justice Jeffries, for some passages in his " Com- 
mentary on the New Testament," supposed hostile to Episcopacy, and was 
tried for sedition. The brutal insolence and tyranny of Jeffries on this trial 
have signalized it as one of the most disgraceful proceedings on legal record. 
He acted the part of prosecutor as well as judge, insulting his counsel in the 
coarsest manner, refusing to hear his witnesses, and saying he was " sorry that 
the Act of Indemnity disabled him from hanging him." He was fined five 
hundred marks, and sentenced to prison till it was paid. He was confined in 
prison nearly eighteen months, when he was pardoned and the fine remitted. 
The solitude of his prison was enlivened on this, as on former occasions, by 
the affectionate attentions of his wife ; for it was his good fortune to marry 
one who cheerfully submitted to, and shared all his sufferings on the score of 
conscience. He lived to see that favorable change in reference to religious 
toleration which commenced at the Revolution of 1688, and died on the 8* 1 * 
of December, 1691. 

Baxter was a most voluminous writer, above one hundred and forty-five 
treatises of his being enumerated. Two of them, the "Saint's Everlasting 
Rest," and the " Call to the Unconverted," have been extremely popular, and 
met with a circulation which few other books have attained. The learned 
and unlearned have alike united to extol them, for they are admirably adapted 
to persons of every class and rank in life. The reason is, they are addressed 
to the heart and to the conscience, which are common to all ; that they ap- 
pertain to that purity of heart and life which are indispensable to the happi- 
ness of all ; and that they treat of those eternal things in which the king and 
the peasant, the rich and the poor, have an equal interest. 1 

Baxter left behind him a " Narrative of the most Memorable Passages of 
his Life and Times," which was published in a folio volume after his death. 
It is here we find that review of his religious opinions, written in the latter 
part of his life, which Coleridge 2 speaks of as one of the most remarkable 
pieces of writing that have come down to us. It was one of Dr. Johnson's 
favorite books. The following are some extracts from it : — 

EXPERIENCE OF HUMAN CHARACTER. 

I now see more good and more evil in all men than heretofore 
[ did. I see that good men are not so good as I once thought they 
were, but have more imperfections ; and that nearer approach and 
fuller trial doth make, the best appear more weak and faulty than 
their admirers at a distance think. And I find that few are so 
bad as either malicious enemies or censorious separating profes- 
sors do imagine. In some, indeed, I find that human nature is 
corrupted into a greater likeness to devils than I once thought any 
on earth had been. But even in the wicked, usually there is> 
more for grace to make advantage of, and more to testify for God 
and holiness, than I once believed there had been. 

I less admire gifts of utterance, and bare profession of rel'gion, 

1 Or. Isaac Barrow has said, that " his practical writings were never mended, and his controversial 
ones seldom confuted." 2 Biographia Literaria. 



334 BAXTER. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

than 1 once did ; and have much more charity for many who, by 
the want of gifts, do make an obscurer profession than they. I 
once thought that almost all that could pray movingly and fluently, 
and talk well of religion, had been saints. But experience hath 
opened to me what odious crimes may consist with high profes- 
sion ; and I have met with divers obscure persons, not noted for 
any extraordinary profession, or forwardness in religion, but only 
to live a quiet blameless life, whom I have after found to have 
long lived, as far as I could discern, a truly godly and sanctified 
life ; only, their prayers and duties were by accident kept secret 
from other men's observation. Yet he that upon this pretence 
would confound the godly and the ungodly, may as well go about 
to lay heaven and hell together. 

DESIRE OF APPROBATION. 

I am much less regardful of the approbation of man, and set 
much lighter by contempt or applause, than I did long ago. I 
am oft suspicious that this is not only from the increase of self- 
denial and humility, but partly from my being glutted and sur- 
feited with human applause : and all worldly things appear most 
vain and unsatisfactory, when we have tried them most. But 
though I feel that this hath some hand in the effect, yet, as far as 
I can perceive, the knowledge of man's nothingness, and God's 
transcendent greatness, with whom it is that I have most to do, 
and the sense of the brevity of human things, and the nearness of 
eternity, are the principal causes of this effect ; which some have 
imputed to self-conceitedness and morosity. 

CHARACTER OF SIR MATTHEW HALE. 

He was a man of no quick utterance, but spake with great rea- 
son. He was most precisely just ; insomuch that, I believe, he 
would have lost all he had in the world rather than do an unjust 
act : patient in hearing the most tedious speech which any man 
had to make for himself: the pillar of justice, the refuge of the 
subject who feared oppression, and one of the greatest honors of 
his majesty's government ; for, with some other upright judges, 
he upheld the honor of the English nation, that it fell not into the 
reproach of arbitrariness, cruelty, and utter confusion. Every 
man that had a just cause, was almost past fear if he could but 
bring it to the court or assize where he was judge ; for the other 
judges seldom contradicted him. 

He was the great instrument for rebuilding London ; for when 
an act was made for deciding all controversies that hindered it, h& 
was the constant judge, who for nothing followed the work, and, 
by his prudence and justice, removed a multitude of great im- 
pediments. 



1689-1702.] Baxter. 335 

His great advantage for innocency was, that he was no lover 
of riches or of grandeur. His garb was too plain ; he studiously 
avoided all unnecessary familiarity with great persons, and all 
that manner of living which signifieth wealth and greatness. He 
kept no greater a family than myself. I lived in a small house, 
which, for a pleasant back opening, he had a mind to ; but caused 
a stranger, that he might not be suspected to be the man, to know 
of me whether I were willing to part with it, before he would 
meddle with it. In that house he lived contentedly, without any 
pomp, and without costly or troublesome retinue or visitors ; but 
not without charity to the poor. He continued the study of phy- 
sics and mathematics still, as his great delight. He hath himself 
written four volumes in folio, three of which I have read, against 
atheism, Sadduceeism, and infidelity, to prove first the Deity, and 
then the immortality of man's soul, and then the truth of Christi- 
anity and the Holy Scripture, answering the infidel's objections 
against Scripture. It is strong and masculine, only too tedious 
for impatient readers. He said he wrote it only at vacant hours 
in his circuits, to regulate his meditations, finding, that while he 
wrote down what he thought on, his thoughts were the easier kept 
close to work, and kept in a method. But I could not persuade 
him to publish them. 

The conference which I had frequently with him, mostly about 
the immortality of the soul, and other philosophical and foundation 
points, was so edifying, that his very questions and objections did 
help me to more light than other men's solutions. Those who 
take none for religious who frequent not private meetings, &c, 
took him for an excellently righteous moral man ; but I, who heard 
and read his serious expressions of the concernments of eternity, 
and saw his love to all good men, and the blamelessness of his 
life, thought better of his piety than my own. When the people 
crowded in and out of my house to hear, he openly showed me 
so great respect before them at the door, and never spake a word 
against it, as was no small encouragement to the common peopje 
to go on ; though the other sort muttered, that a judge should 
seem so far to countenance that which they took to be against the 
law. He was a great lamenter of the extremities of the time?, 
and of the violence and foolishness of the predominant clergy, 
and a great desirer of such abatements as might restore us all to 
eerviceableness and unity. He had got but a very small estate, 
though he had long the greatest practice, because he would take 
but little money, and undertake no more business than he could 
well despatch. He often offered to the lord chancellor to resign 
his place, when he was blamed for doing that which he supposed 
was justice. 



336 TILLOTSON. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES. 

My mind being these many years immersed in studies of this 
nature, and having also long wearied myself in searching what 
fathers and schoolmen have said of such things before us, and my 
genius abhorring confusion and equi vocals, I came, by many years' 
longer study, to foresee that most of the doctrinal controversies 
among Protestants are far more about equivocal words than matter; 
and it wounded my soul to perceive what work, both tyrannical 
and unskilful, disputing clergymen had made these thirteen hun- 
dred years in the world ! Experience, since the year 1643, till this 
year, 1675, hath loudly called me to repent of my own prejudices, 
sidings, and censurings of causes and persons not understood, and 
of all the miscarriages of my ministry and life which have been 
thereby caused ; and to make it my chief work to call men that 
are within my hearing to more peaceable thoughts, affections, and 
practices. And my endeavors have not been in vain, in that the 
ministers of the county where I lived, were very many of such a 
peaceable temper : and a great number more through the land, by 
God's grace (rather than any endeavors of mine) are so minded. 
But the sons of the cowl were exasperated the more against me, 
and accounted him to be against every man that called all men to 
love and peace, and was for no man as in a contrary way. 



JOHN TILLOTSON. 1630—169* 



John - Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury, was born in Sowerby, in York- 
shire, in 1630. His father was a strict Puritan, and carefully instilled his own 
principles into the mind of his son, and in 1647 sent him to Cambridge to be 
under the tuition of David Clarkson, an eminent Presbyterian divine. After 
leaving college he became tutor in the family of Edmund Prideux, the attor- 
ney-general of Cromwell. In 1661, one year after the accession of Charles 
H., he complied with the act of uniformity, and consequently soon received 
a curacy in the Established Church ; after which he rose successively, through 
the many gradations, till in 1690 he was elevated to the see of Canterbury. 
He lived to enjoy his new honors but four years, dying in 1694. 

The sermons of Tillotson are his principal compositions, and so very popular 
was he, in his day, as a preacher, that a bookseller gave to Ms widow two 
thousand live hundred guineas for the copyright. They were proposed to 
divines as " models of correct and elegant composition," but they will not 
quite bear such eulogy. Perspicuity, smoothness, and verbal purity belong to 
them, but they do not possess much richness or vigor of thought. Still, how- 
ever, his writings may be read with great pleasure as well as profit. 1 



1 " The sermons of Tillotson were, for half a century, more read than any in our language : they 
are now bought almost as waste paper, and hardly read at all."—HaUam. 

"Simplicity is the great beauty of Tillotson's manner. His style is always pure, indeed, and per- 
spicuous, but careless and remiss; too often feeble and languid; with little beauty in the construc- 
tion of his sentences, which are frequently suffered to drag un harmoniously; seldom any attempt 



1689-1702.] tillotson. 337 

FALSE AND TRUE PLEASURE. 

Nothing is more certain in reason and experience, than that 
every inordinate appetite and affection is a punishment to itself; 
and is perpetually crossing its own pleasure, and defeating its 
own satisfaction, by overshooting the mark it aims at. For in- 
stance, intemperance in eating and drinking, instead of delighting 
and satisfying nature, doth but load and clog it ; and instead of 
quenching a natural thirst, which it is extremely pleasant to do 
creates an unnatural one, which is troublesome and endless. The 
pleasure of revenge, as soon as it is executed, turns into grief and 
pity, guilt and remorse, and a thousand melancholy wishes that 
we had restrained ourselves from so unreasonable an act. And 
the same is as evident in other sensual excesses, not so fit to be 
described. We may trust Epicurus, for this, that there can be 
no true pleasure without temperance in the use of pleasure. And 
God and reason hath set us no other bounds concerning the use 
of sensual pleasures, but that we take care not to be injurious to 
ourselves, or others, in the kind or degree of them. And it is 
Tery visible, that all sensual excess is naturally attended with a 
double inconvenience : as it goes beyond the limits of nature, it 
begets bodily pains and diseases : as it transgresseth the rules of 
reason and religion, it breeds guilt and remorse in the mind. And 
these are, beyond comparison, the two greatest evils in this world ; 
a diseased body, and a discontented mind ; and in this I am sure 
I speak to the inward feeling and experience of men ; and say 
nothing but what every vicious man finds, and hath a more lively 
sense of, than is to be expressed by words. 

When all is done, there is no pleasure comparable to that of 
innocency, and freedom from the stings of a guilty conscience ; 
this is a pure and spiritual pleasure, much above any sensual 
delight. And yet among all the delights of sense, that of health 
(which is the natural consequent of a sober, and chaste, and regu- 
lar life) is a sensual pleasure far beyond that of any vice. For it 
is the life of life, and that which gives a grateful relish to all our 
other enjoyments. It is not indeed so violent and transporting a 
pleasure, but it is pure, and even, and lasting, and hath no guilt 
or regret, no sorrow and trouble in it, or after it : which is a worm 
that infallibly breeds in all vicious and unlawful pleasures, and 
makes them to be bitterness in the end. 

EVIDENCE OF A CREATOR IN THE STRUCTURE OF THE WORLD. 

How often might a man, after he had jumbled a set of letters in 
a bag, fling them out upon the ground before they would fall into 

towards strength or sublimity. But notwithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of piety 
and good sense runs through his works, such an earnest and serious manner, and so much useful 
instruction conveyed in a style so pure, natural, and unaffected, as will justly commend him to high 
regard."— Blair's Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, Lect. xix. 

Y 29 



338 TILLOTSON. WILLIAM & MARY. 

an exact poem, yea, or so much as make a good discourse in prcse ! 
And may not a little book be as easily made by chance, as this 
great volume of the world ! How long might a man be in sprink- 
ling colors upon a canvas with a careless hand, before they could 
happen to make the exact picture of a man ? And is a man easier 
made by chance than this picture? How long might twenty 
thousand blind men, which should be sent out from the several 
remote parts of EngJand, wander up and down before they would 
all meet upon Salisbury Plains, and fall into rank and file in the 
exact order of an army ? And yet this is much more easy to be 
imagined, than how the innumerable blind parts of mutter should 
rendezvous themselves into a world. 

EDUCATION. 1 

Such ways of education as are prudently fitted to the particular 
disposition of children, are like wind and tide together, which will 
make the work go on amain : but those ways which are applied 
cioss to nature are like wind against tide, which will make a stir 
and conflict, but a very slow progress. 

The principles of religion and virtue must be instilled and 
dropped into them by such degrees, and in such a measure, as 
they are capable of receiving them : for children are narrow- 
mouthed vessels, and a great deal cannot be poured into them at 
once. 

Young years are tender, and easily wrought upon, apt to be 
moulded into any fashion : they are like moist and soft clay, which 
is pliable to any form ; but soon grows hard* and then nothing is 
to be made of it. 

Great severities do often work an effect quite contrary to that 
which was intended ; and many times those who were bred up in 
a very severe school, hate learning ever after for the sake of the 
cruelty that was used to force it upon them. So, likewise, an en- 
deavor to bring chiidren to piety and goodness by unreasonable 
strictness and rigor, docs often beget in them a lasting disgust and 
prejudice against religion, and teacheth them to hate virtue, at the 
same time that they teach them to know it. 

FORMATION OF A YOUTHFUL MIND. 

Men gJory in raising great and magnificent structures, and find 
a secret pleasure to see sets of their own planting grow up and 

i "AiasI how many examples are now presented to our memory, of young persons the most 
anxiously and expensively be-schoolmastered, be-tutored, be-lectured, any tning but educated; 
who have received arms and ammunition, Instead of skill, strength, and courage; varnished rather 
than polished; perilously over-civilized, aad most pitiably uncultivated 1 And all from inattention 
tc the method dictated by nature herself,— to the simple truth, that, as the forms in all organized 
existence, so must all true and living knowledge proceed from within ; that it may be trained, sup- 
ported, fed, excited, but can never be infused or impressed."— Coleridge, " Friend," iii. 224. 






1689-1702.] vaughan. 339 

flourish ; but it is a greater and more glorious work to build up a 
man ; to see a youth, of our own planting, from' the small beginnings 
and advantages we have given him, to grow up into a considera- 
ble fortune, to take root in the world, and to shoot up into such a 
height, and spread his branches so wide, that we who first planted 
him may ourselves find comfort and shelter under his shadow. 

WORLDLY INFLUENCES. 

How easily are men checked and diverted from a good cause 
by the temptations and advantages of this world ! How many are 
coJd in their zeal for religion, by the favor and friendship of the 
world ! and as their goods and estates have grown greater, their 
devotion hath grown less. How apt are they to be terrified at the 
apprehension of danger and sufferings, and by their fearful imagi- 
nations to make them greater than they are, and with the people 
of Israel to be disheartened from all future attempts of entering 
into the land of promise, because it is full of giants and the sons 
of Anak ! How easily was Peter frightened into the denial of his 
Master ! And when our Saviour was apprehended, how did his 
disciples forsake him and fly from him! and though they were 
constant afterwards to the death, yet it was a great while before 
they were perfectly armed and steeled against the fear of suffering. 



HENRY VAUGHAN. 1621—1695. 



Height Vattghan-, the " Silurest," as he called himself, from that part of 
Wales whose inhabitants were the ancient Stlures, was born on the banks of 
the Usk, in Brecknockshire, in 1621, and in 1638, at the age of seventeen, 
entered Oxford. He was designed for the profession of the law, but retiring 
to his home at the commencement of the civil wars, he became eminent in 
the practice of physic, and was esteemed by scholars, says Wood, "an inge 
nious person, but proud and humorous." He died in 1695. 

Vaughan's first publication was entitled " Olor Iscanus, 1 a Collection of some 
Select Poems and Translations." In his latter days he became very serious, 
having met with the works " of that blessed man, Mr. George Herbert." He 
then published his " Silex Scintillans, 2 or Sacred Poems and Private Ejacula- 
tions." Of the poems of this author, Mr. Campbell speaks rather too severely, 
when he calls them the production of "one of the harshest even of the infe- 
rior order of the school of conceit." True, he is very often dull and obscuie, 
and spends his strength on frigid and bombastic conceits; but occasionally, 
and especially in his sacred poems, he exhibits considerable originality and 
picturesque grace, and breathes forth a high strain of morality and piety. xiia 
best piece, I think, is the following upon 



1 That is, "Thelscan Swan," the adjective "Iscanus" being formed from Isca the Latin name of 
his favorite river Usk. 

2 "The Spark-emitting Flint." Read, an article on Vaugtan's poetry in the Retrospective Review, 
iii. 336. 



840 VAUGHAN. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. 

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave 

To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
The spirit's duty : true hearts spread and heave 

Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun : 
Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep 
Him company all day, and in him sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up ; prayer should 

Dawn with the day : there are set awful hours 

'Twixt heaven and us ; the manna was not good 
After sun-rising ; far day sullies flowers : 

Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, 

And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut 

Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush 
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring 

Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush 
And oak doth know I am. Canst thou not sing? 

leave thy cares and follies ! Go this way, 

And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world ; let him not go 

Until thou hast a blessing ; then resign 
The whole unto him, and remember who 

Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine ; 
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, 
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. 

Mornings are mysteries ; the first, world's youth, 

Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, 
Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, truth, 

Is styled their star; the stone- and hidden food: 
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which 
Should move — they make us holy, happy, rich. 

When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, 
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay; 

Despatch necessities ; life hath a load 

Which must be carried on, and safely may ; 

Yet keep those cares without thee ; let the heart 

Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 

Vaughan's prose writings are more easy and natural than his poetry, as 
will be seen by the following beautiful piece upon 

THE PLEASURES OF THE COUNTRY. 

This privilege also, above others, makes the countryman happy, 
that he hath always something at hand which is both useful and 
pleasant ; a blessing which has never been granted, either to a 
courtier or a citizen : they have enemies enough, but few friends 
that deserve their love, or that they dare trust to, either for coun- 
sel or action. O who can ever fully express the pleasures and 
happiness of the country-life ; with the various and delightful 
sports of fishing, hunting, and fowling, with guns, greyhounds, 



1689-1702.] VATJGHAN. 341 

spaniels, and several sorts of nets ! What oblectation and refresh- 
ment it is to behold the green shades, the beauty and majesty of 
the tall and ancient groves ; to be skilled in planting and dressing 
of orchards, flowers, and pot-herbs ; to temper and allay these 
harmless employments with some innocent, merry song; to as- 
cend sometimes to the fresh and healthful hills ; to descend into 
the bosom of the valleys, and the fragrant, dewy meadows ; to hear 
the music of birds, the murmurs of bees, the falling of springs, and 
the pleasant discourses of the old ploughmen. These are the 
blessings which only a countryman is ordained to, and are in vain 
wished for by citizens and courtiers. 

The following remarks upon the guilt of writing or publishing books of an 
immoral tendency, it would be well for a large number of publishers carefully 
to read, and seriously to ponder. Would that they might be governed by such 
excellent sentiments, rather than, as they too often seem to be, by the mere 
consideration of profit or loss. 

RESPONSIBILITY OF EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS. 

If every idle word shall be accounted for, and if one corrupt 
communication should proceed out of our mouths, how desperate 
(I beseech you) is their condition, who all their lifetime, and oat 
of mere design, study lascivious fictions ; then carefully record 
and publish them, that instead of grace and life, they may minister 
sin and death unto their readers ! It was wisely considered, and 
piously said by one, that he would read no idle books ; both in 
regard of love to his own soul, and pity unto his that made them, 
for (said he) if I be corrupted by them, their composer is immedi- 
ately a cause of my ill, and at the day of reckoning (though now 
dead) must give an account for it, because I am corrupted by his 
bad example which he left behind him. I will write none, lest I 
hurt them that come after me ; I will read none, lest I augment 
his punishment that is gone before me. I will neither write nor 
read, lest I prove a foe to my own soul : while I live, I sin too 
much ; let me not continue longer in wickedness than I do in life. 
It is a sentence of sacred authority, that he that is dead, is freed 
from sin, because he cannot, in that state, which is without the 
body, sin any more ; but he that writes idle books, makes for him- 
self another body, in which he always lives, and sins (after death) 
as fast and as foul as ever he did in his life ; which very consider- 
ation deserves to be a sufficient antidote against thiis evil disease. 



29* 



342 TEMPLE. [WILLIAM & MART, 



SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. 1628—1698. 

William Temple, otherwise Sir William Temple, an eminent statesman 
and writer of his day, was born in London, 1628, and at the age of seventeen 
entered Emanuel College, Cambridge. After spending about two years at the 
university, he spent six years in travelling upon the continent, and returning 
in 1654, he married and lived in privacy under the Protectorate, declining 
all office : but soon after the Restoration, Charles II. bestowed a baronetcy 
upon him, and appointed him English resident at the court of Brussels. He 
paid a visit to the Dutch governor, De Witt, at tire Hague, and with great 
skill brought about, in 1668, the celebrated "triple alliance" between England, 
Holland, and Sweden, which for a time checked the ambitious career of Louis 
XIV". Here, too, he formed an intimacy with the young Prince of Orange, 
afterwards William III. of England. 

His subsequent public employments were numerous; but when he dis- 
covered that Charles determined to govern without his Parliament, he quit- 
ted the court in disgust, and retired to his house at Sheen, near Richmond, 
in Surrey, whence he sent by his son a message to his majesty, stating that 
" he would pass the rest of his life as good a subject as any in his king- 
doms, but would never more meddle with public affairs." From this period 
he lived so retired a life, that the transactions which brought about the 
Revolution of 1688 were unknown to him. After the abdication of James, 
the Prince of Orange pressed him to become secretary of state, but could not 
prevail upon him to accept the post. He died in 1698, at the age of sixty 
nine. 

The works of Sir William Temple consist, chiefly, of short miscellaneous 
pieces. His longest productions are, "Observations upon the United Provinces 
of the Netherlands," composed during his first retirement at Sheen ; and an 
" Essay on the Original and Nature of Government." Besides several political 
tracts of temporary interest, he wrote "Essays" on "Ancient and Modern 
Learning;" the "Gardens of Epicurus;" "Heroic Virtue;" "Poetry;" and 
"Health and Long Life." 

His " Essay upon Ancient and Modern Learning" gave rise to one of the 
most celebrated literary controversies which have occurred in England. In 
it he maintained the position, that the ancients were far superior to the 
moderns, not in genius only, but in learning and science. After citing many 
works of the ancients to sustain his position, he adduced the " Epistles of 
Phalaris," x which he declared genuine, and ventured to pronounce them as 
one of the greatest works of antiquity. This led to a publication of a new 
edition of them at Oxford, under the name of Charles Boyle, as editor. Im- 
mediately appeared "A Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris," by that 
celebrated critic and profound Greek scholar, Richard Bentley ; clearly show- 
ing them to be a forgery. Then appeared "Bentley's Dissertation Examined," 
ostensibly by Boyle, but really by Atterbury, Smalridge, Aldrich, and other 
Oxford divines; which seemed to give the Boyle party the advantage, till 
Bentley published his rejoinder, which showed such depth and extent of learn- 
ing, and such powers of reasoning, as completely prostrated all his antago- 
nists. But what could not be done by argument, was attempted to be done 

1 Phalaris was a tyrant of Asrrigentum, in Sicily, who flourished more than five hundred years 
before; Christ. The Epistles which bear his name, and which are utterly worthless in a literary point 
of view, were probably written b\ so;ne rhetorician or sophist in the time of the Caesars. 



1689-1702.] temple. 343 

by ridicule, and Pope, 1 Swift, Garth, Middleton, and others came into the field. 
In the use of this weapon, Swift, of course, proved the ablest champion, and 
in that work of infinite humor, entitled " The Battle of the Books," he not 
only ridiculed Bentley, but also his friend, the Rev. William Wotton, who had 
opposed Temple in a treatise, entitled " Reflections upon Ancient and Modern 
Learning." 

" Sir William Temple," says Dr. Blair, " is another remarkable writer in the 
style of simplicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree 
above Tillotson ; though for correctness he is not in the highest rank. All is 
easy and flowing in him; he is exceedingly harmonious; smoothness, and. 
what maybe called amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his manner, 
relaxing sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into a prolix and 
remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his style St more lively 
impression of his own character." 

PLEASURES OF A RURAL LIFE. 

For my own part, as the country life, and this part of it more 
particularly, (namely, gardening-,) were the inclination of my 
youth itself, so they are the pleasure of my age ; and I can truly 
say, that among many great employments that have fallen to my 
share, I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often 
endeavored to escape from them, into the ease and freedom of a 
private scene, where a man may go his own way and his own 
pace, in the common paths or circles of life. 

The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes what he 
has chosen, which, I thank God, has befallen me ; and though 
among the follies of my life, building and planting have not been 
the least, and have cost me more than I ha\e the confidence to 
own ; yet they have been fully recompensed by the sweetness 
and satisfaction of this retreat, where, since my resolution taken 
of never entering again into any public employments, I have 
passed five years without ever going once to town, though I am 
almost in sight of it, and have a house there always ready to re- 
ceive me. Nor has this been any sort of affectation, as some have 
thought it, but a mere want of desire or humor to make so small 
a remove. 

COMPARISON BETWEEN HOMER AND VIRGIL. 

Homer was, without dispute, the most universal genius that has 
been known in the world, and Virgil the most accomplished. To 
the first, must be allowed the most fertile invention, the richest 
vein, the most general knowledge, and the most lively expres- 
sion : to the last, the noblest ideas, the justest institution, the 

1 Pope says that Boyle wrote only the narrative of what passed between him and the booksellers, 
which, too, was corrected for him ; that Atterbury and Freind, the master of Westminster school, 
wrote the body of the criticisms; and that Dr. King wrote the droll argument to prove that Dr- 
Bentley was not the author of the Dissertation on the Epistles. 

This famous controversy excited the literary world for years. Eustice Budgell, the greatest con 
tributor to the Spectator, next to Addison and Steele, j ublished an account of it. 



344 TEMPLE. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

wisest conduct, and the choicest elocution. To speak in the 
painter's terms, we find in the works of Homer, the most spirit, 
force, and life ; in those of Virgil, the best design, the truest pro- 
portions, and the greatest grace ; the coloring in both seems equal, 
and, indeed, is in both admirable. Homer had more fire and rap- 
ture, Virgil more light and swiftness ; or, at least, the poetical 
fire was more raging in one, but clearer in the other, which makes 
the first more amazing, and the latter more agreeable. The ore 
was heavier in one, but in the other more refined, and better al- 
loyed to make up excellent work. Upon the whole, I think it must 
be confessed, that Homer was of the two, and perhaps of all others, 
the vastest, the sublimest, and the most wonderful genius; and 
that he has been generally so esteemed, there cannot be a greater 
testimony given, than what has been by some observed, that not 
only the greatest masters have found in his works the best and 
truest principles of all their sciences or arts, but that the noblest 
nations have derived from them the original of their several races, 
though it be hardly yet agreed, whether his story be true or fic- 
tion. In short, these two immortal poets must be allowed to have 
so much excelled in their kinds, as to have exceeded all compari- 
son, to have even extinguished emulation, and in a manner confined 
true poetry, not only to their two languages, but to their very per- 
sons. And I am apt to believe so much of the true genius of 
poetry in general, and of its elevation in these two particulars, that 
I know not, whether of all the numbers of mankind, that live 
within the compass of a thousand years, for one man that is born 
capable of making such a poet as Homer or Virgil, there may not 
be a thousand born capable of making as great generals of armies, 
or ministers of state, as any the most renowned in story. 

AGAINST EXCESSIVE GRIEF. 1 

I know no duty in religion more generally agreed on, nor more 
justly required by God Almighty, than a perfect submission to his 
will in all things ; nor do I think any disposition of mind can 
either please him more, or becomes us better, than that of being 
satisfied with all he gives, and contented with all he takes away. 
None, I am sure, can be of more honor to God, nor of more ease 
to ourselves. For, if we consider him as our Maker, we cannot 
contend with him ; if as our Father, we ought not to distrust him : 
so that we may be confident, whatever he does is intended for 
good ; and whatever happens that we interpret otherwise, yet we 
caii get nothing by repining, nor save any thing by resisting. 

It is true you have lost a child, and all that could be lost in a 
child of that age ; but you have kept one child, and you are likely 

t From a idter addressed to the Countess of Essex, in 1G74, after the death of her only dajghter. 



1689-1702.] temple. 345 

to do so long ; you have the assurance of another, and the hopes 
of many more. You have kept a husband, great in employment, 
in fortune, and in the esteem of good men. You have kept your 
beauty and your health, unless you have destroyed them yourself, 
or discouraged them to stay with you by using them ill. You 
have friends who are as kind to you as you can wish, or as you 
can give them leave to be. You have honor and esteem from all 
who know you ; or if ever it fails in any degree, it is only upon 
that point of your seeming to be fallen out with God and the whole 
world, and neither to care for yourself, nor any thing else, after 
what you have lost. 

You will say, perhaps, that one thing was all to you, and your 
fondness of it made you indifferent to every thing else. But this, 
I doubt, will be so far from justifying you, that it will prove to be 
your fault, as well as your misfortune. God Almighty gave you 
all the blessings of life, and you set your heart wholly upon one, 
and despise or undervalue all the rest : is this his fault or yours ? 
Nay, is it not to be very unthankful to Heaven, as well as very 
scornful to the rest of the world ? is it not to say, because you 
have lost one thing God has given, you thank him for nothing he 
has left, and care not what he takes away ? is it not to say, since 
that one thing is gone out of the world, there is nothing left in it 
which you think can deserve your kindness or esteem? A friend 
makes me a feast, and places before me all that his care or kind- 
ness could provide : but I set my heart upon one dish alone, and, 
if that happens to be thrown down, I scorn all the rest; and 
though he sends for another of the same kind, yet I rise from the 
table in a rage, and say, "My friend is become my enemy, and 
he has done me the greatest wrong in the world." Have I rea- 
son, madam, or good grace in what I do ? or would it become me 
better to eat of the rest that is before me, and think no more of 
what had happened, and could not be remedied ? 

Christianity teaches and commands us to moderate our pas- 
sions ; to temper our affections towards all things below ; to be 
thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss, whenever 
He who gave shall see fit to take away. Your extreme fondness 
was perhaps as displeasing to God before, as now your extreme 
affliction is ; and your loss may have been a punishment for youi 
faults in the manner of enjoying what you had. It is at least 
pious to ascribe all the ill that befalls us to our own demerits, ra 
ther than to injustice in God. And it becomes us better to adore 
the issues of his providence in the effects, than to inquire into 
the causes ; for submission is the only way of reasoning between 
a creature and its Maker; and contentment in his will is the 
greatest duty we can pretend to, and the best remedy we can ap- 
ply to all cur misfortunes. 



346 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MARY, 



JOHN DRYDEN. 1630—1700. 

" Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join 
The varying verse, the full resounding line, 
The long majestic march, and energy divine." — Pope. 

John Drtdeis - , the celebrated English poet, "was born in Aldwinkle, it 
Northamptonshire, 1631. He was educated in Westminster school, and in 
Trinity College, Cambridge. His first poem that attracted notice was his 
stanzas on Cromwell's death; but so exceedingly pliable was he, that, in 1660, 
he wrote a congratulatory address to Charles II., on his restoration to the 
throne of his ancestors. But this did not " put money in his purse," and he 
was soon obliged to betake himself to what was then a more profitable de- 
partment of poetry, and write for the stage, which he continued to do for 
many years. In these literary labors he debased his genius to an extent which 
no "circumstances of the times" can excuse, by writing in a manner and style 
that entirely harmonized with the licentious spirit and taste of the court and 
age of Charles II. 

In 1668 he succeeded Davenant as poet-laureate, which excited the envy 
of those who aspired to the same royal distinction. The most powerful of his 
enemies were the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of Rochester, the former 
of whom ridiculed the poet in that well-known farce called "The Rehearsal.'' 
In return, Dryden, in 1681, published his satire of "Absalom and Achitophel," 
perhaps the most vigorous as well as the most popular of all his poetical 
writings. This was speedily followed by " The Medal," a bitter lampoon 
on Shaftesbury, and was followed up the next year by " Mac Flecknoe," x and 
the second part of " Absalom and Achitophel." These were all most bitter 
satires upon his personal enemies, Buckingham, Monmouth, Shaftesbury, Set- 
tie, Shad well, and others. In "Absalom and Achitophel," Monmouth- figures 
under the former, and Shaftesbury under the latter name. 

After the accession of James, (1685,) when Popery became the chief quali- 
fication for court favor, Dryden renounced Protestantism and turned Papist. 
He gained but little by it, though he wrote in defence of the Romish faith in 
"The Hind and the Panther." 2 In 1689, one year after the abdication of 
James, he would not take the required oaths to the government of William 
and Mary, and was therefore compelled to resign his office of poet-laureate, 
which, with a salary increased to <£300, was conferred on Thomas Shadwell, 
whom Dryden thus satirized in his "Mac Flecknoe:" 

The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, 
But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, 
Strike through, and make a lucid interval ; 
But ShadwelPs genuine night admits no day. 3 

1 Mac is the Celtic for son ; and Richard Flecknoe was an Irish Roman Catholic priest, and a well- 
known hackneyed poetaster. The leading idea of the poem, therefore, is, to represent the solemn 
Inauguration of one inferior poet as the successor (" son") of another, in the monarchy of nonsense. 

2 The idea of two beasts discussing arguments in theology, and quoting the Fathtrs, excited dis- 
gust or merriment, so that, as a work of controversy, it proved a complete failure. 

3 That this is the language of bitter personal enmity, no one can doubt, from the fact that such 
acne as Dryden describes would not be honored with such a post. Accordingly, a modern critic 
(Retrospective Review, xvi. 56) says of Shadwell, "He was an accomplished observer of human na- 
ture, had a ready power of seizing the ridiculous in the manners of the times, was amfnof sense 
and information, and displayed in his writings a very considf^ble fund of humor." 



1689-1702.] deyden. 847 

The latter years of his life were devoted to the translation of Juvenal and 
Perseus, and of the iEneid, by which he is more known than by any of his 
original poetry, if we except the "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," which he 
" finished at one sitting," as he himself said, while he was engaged in trans 
lating the Mantuan bard. This ode ranks among the best lyrical pieces in our 
language ; but it contains some licentiousness of imagery and description 
which justly detracts from its general popularity. His last work was a 
Masque, composed about three weeks before his death, which took place on 
the 1st of May, 1700. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

The character of Dryden is not such as to command our respect or esteem 
He seems to have had no sound principles, either in morals or in religion. 
His movements were those of the weathercock, showing the current of the 
popular breeze. He wrote for the day, and he had his reward, — popularity 
for the time, but comparative neglect with posterity. As a poet he cannot take 
rank in the first class. A writer in the Retrospective Review 1 very justly re- 
marks, that " it is well that his fame has become a settled conviction in the 
public mind, for were a man casually called upon to prove the truth of the 
position, though secure of ultimate victory, he would find the task not unen- 
cumbered with difficulty — he could not appeal to any particular work, as 
being universally read, and as universally admired and approved. His trans- 
lations, it is true, are spirited, and convey all, and frequently more than the 
writer's meaning-, but then, he has taken improper liberties with his author, 
and fills the mind of the reader with emotions of a different character than 
would be produced by the original. Then his plays are bombastic, and as a 
proof of their worthlessness, it may be alleged they are forgotten. His fables, 
his odes, his tales, his satires remain; all of which, it is clear, on the reading, 
could only be written by a man of gigantic genius, but are, as wholes, from the 
lapse of time and the occasional nature of many, and from the imperfections 
of haste and carelessness, far from being among the choice favorites of the 
common reader." 

To these remarks maybe added the discriminating criticism of Campbell: 2 
" He is a writer of manly and elastic character. His strong judgment gave 
force as well as direction to a flexible fancy; and his harmony is generally 
the echo of solid thoughts. But he was not gifted with intense or lofty sen 
sibility ; on the contrary, the grosser any idea is, the happier he seems t$ 
expatiate upon it. The transports of the heart, and the deep and varied 
delineations of the passions, are strangers to his poetry. He could describe 
character in the abstract, but could not embody it in the drama, for he entered 
into character more from clear perception than fervid sympathy. This great 
High Priest of all the Nine was not a confessor to the finer secrets of the hu 
man breast. Had the subject of Eloisa fallen into his hands, he would have 
left but a coarse draft of her passion." 

Such, I think, is a fair view of Dryden's poetical character. True, Gray 
in his " Progress of Poesy," alludes to " the stately march and sounding energy 
of his rhymes;" and these qualities they certainly possess: and the same fas 
tidious critic has justly immortalized the " thoughts that breathe, and words 
that burn," in his celebrated lyric, "Alexander's Feast." But after all, he 
possesses in a slight degree, comparatively, those great qualities which make 
the true poet — imagination — fancy — invention — pathos — sublimity. That he 
might have done better than he has, I have not the least doubt. Hence, his 
case reads a most instructive lesson to men of intellect. Endowed with ab : - 



1 Retrospective Review, L 11$. 2 Specimens, i. 2o7 



348 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MARY, 

lities of the highest order, he was clearly capable of producing such works as 
posterity would « not willingly let die." But instead of spending his mighty 
strength upon those principles of immutable truth and of universal human 
nature, which will ever find a response in the human heart as long as there 
are hearts to feel; he wasted his time and debased his genius, by writing too 
much upon subjects of merely temporal interest, and in such a manner as to 
be in keeping with the corrupt sentiments and the licentious spirit of the age. 
Wiien will men of genius, capable of exerting a mighty influence for good, 
for all coming time, learn to trample under their feet the false and debasing 
sentiments, dishonoring to God and degrading to man, that exist around them, 
and rise to immortality by the only sure paths, — virtue and truth 1 l 

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANNE KILLEGREW. 

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, 
Made in the last promotion of the blest ; 
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, 
In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 
Rich with immortal green, above the rest: 
Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, 
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race, 

Or, in procession fix'd and regular, 

Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace; 

Or, calfd to more superior bliss, 
Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss : 
Whatever happy region is thy place, 
Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 

Since heaven's eternal year is thine. 
Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, 

In no ignoble verse ; 
But such as thine own voice did practise here, 
When thy first-fruits of poesy were given ; 
To make thyself a welcome inmate there : 
While yet a young probationer, 
And candidate of heaven. 

If by traduction came thy mind, 

Our wonder is the less to find 
A soul so charming from a stock so good ; 
Thy father was transfused into thy blood : 
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, 
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. 

But if thy pre-existing soul 

Was form'd at first with myriads more, 
It did through all the mighty poets roll, 

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, 
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 

If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind ! 

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : 

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find 

1 Read— two articles on Dryden in the Retrospective Review, 1. 113, and iv. 55 : also, one in the 
Edinburgh, xiii. 116, and another in Macaulay's Miscellanies, i. 127. Also, in Blair's lectures, leet. 
xviii., and in Hallam's Literature, pp. 377 and 378. The best edition of Dryden's works is that by 
6ir Walter Scott, J6 vols. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1821. 



1^89-1702.] bkyden. 34J» 

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind. 
Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. 
* * * * * * * 

O gracious God ! how far have we 
Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy 1 
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
Debased to each obscene and impious use, 
Whose harmony was first ordahf d above 
For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love? 
O wretched we ! why were we hurried down 

This lubrique and adulterate age, 
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) 

T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage ? 
What can we say t' excuse our second fall ? 
Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all ; 
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, 
Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiled ; 
Her wit was more than man ; her innocence a child. 
******* 

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, 

To raise the nations under ground ; 
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, 
The judging God shall close the book of fate ; 

And there the last assizes keep 

For those who wake, and those who sleep; 
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, 

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
For they are cover *d with the lightest ground ; 
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing, 
Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing 
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shall go, 
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, 
The way which thou so well hast learnt below. 

ON MILTON. 

Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd ; 
The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
The force of nature could no further go ; 
To make a third, she join'd the other two. 

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS, 1 
Paraphrased from the Latin Hymn. 
Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come v'sit every pious mind ; 
Come pour thy joys on human kind ; 
From sin and sorrow set us free, 
And make thy temples worthy thee. 
source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promised Paraclete! 2 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 

1 Come, Creator Spirit. 2 A Greek word signifying advocate, helper, comfoiter. 

30 



850 DRYLEN. [WILLIAM & MART, 

Come, and thy sacred unction bring 

To sanctify us, while we sing. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 

Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 

Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 

Whose power does heaven and earth command. 

Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, 

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence ! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 

But oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 

Our frailties help, our vice control, 

Submit the senses to the soul ; 

And when rebellious they are grown, 

Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 

And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 

And, lest our feet should step astray, 

Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 

And practise all that we believe : 

Give us thyself, that we may see 

The Father, and the Son, by thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame, 

Attend the Almighty Father's name : 

The Saviour Son be glorified, 

Who for lost man's redemption died : 

And equal adoration be, 

Eternal Paraclete, to thee. 

ENJOYMENT OF THE PRESENT HOUR RECOMMENDED. 

Imitated from Horace. 

Enjoy the present smiling hour, 

And put it out of Fortune's power: 
The tide of business, like the running stream, 

Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, 
And always in extreme. 

Now with a noiseless gentle course 

It keeps within the middle bed ; 

Anon it lifts aloft the head, 
And bears down all before it with impetuous force ; 
And trunks of trees come rolling down ; 
Sheep and their folds together drown : 

Both house and homestead into seas are borne; 

And rocks are from their old foundations torn ; 
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honors mourn. 
Happy the man, and happy he alone, 

He who can call to-day his own : 

He who, secure within, can say, 
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. 

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, 
The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine. 

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power ; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 



1689-1702.] dryden. 351 

Fortune, that with malicious joy 

Does man, her slave, oppress, 
Proud of her office to destroy, 

Is seldom pleased to bless : 
Still various, and inconstant still, 
But with an inclination to be ill, 

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 

And makes a lottery of life. 
I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
But when she dances in the wind, 

And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 

I puff the prostitute away: 
The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd : 

Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm 
What is't to me, 
Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, 
If storms arise, and clouds grow black ; 
If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? 
Then let the greedy merchant fear 

For his ill-gotten gain ; 
And pray to gods that will not hear, 
While the debating winds and billows bear 

His wealth into the main. 
For me, secure from Fortune's blows, 
Secure of what I cannot lose, 
In my small pinnace I can sail, 
Contemning all the blustering roar: 

And running with a merry gale, 
With friendly stars my safety seek, 
Within some little winding creek, 

And see the storm ashore. 

The prose of Dryden, however, is superior to his poetry, and richly deserves 
all the commendation it has received. His style is clear, vigorous, eloquent. 
« No writer, indeed," says Dr. Drake, < ; seems to have studied the genius of 
our language with happier success. If in elegance and grammatical preci- 
sion he has since been exceeded, to none need he give way, in point of vigor, 
variety, richness, and spirit." His chief prose compositions are his " Essay on 
Satire," his Prefaces, and his " Essay on Dramatic Poetry." Of the latter, Dr. 
Johnson says, that it " was the first regular and valuable treatise on the art of 
writing. His portraits of the English dramatists are wrought with great spirit 
and diligence. The account of Shakspeare may stand as a perpetual model 
of encomiastic criticism ; being lofty without exaggeration. In a few lines is 
exhibited a character so extensive in its comprehension and so curious in its 
limitations, that nothing can be added, diminished, or reformed ; nor can trie 
editors and admirers of Shakspeare, in all their emulation and reverence, 
boast of much more than of having diffused and paraphrased this epitome of 
excellence, — of having changed Dryden's gold for baser metal, of lower value 
though of greater bulk." 1 

1 The highest compliment ever paid to his diction has been recorded by Mr. Malone; namely, tbtk 
imitation of Edmujtd Burke, " who," says the critic, " had very diligently read all his miscella- 
neous essays, which he held in high estimation, not only for the instruction which they contain, but 
on account of the rich and numerous prose in which that instruction is conveyed." 



352 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM & MART, 

SHAKSPEARE. 

To begin, then, with Shakspeare. He was the man, who, of 
all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most 
comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present 
to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily : when he 
describes any thing, you more than see it — you feel it too. Those 
who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater 
commendation : he was naturally learned ; he needed not the 
spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards, and found 
her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike ; were he so, 1 
should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of man- 
kind. He is many times flat, insipid ; his comic wit degenerat- 
ing into clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is 
always great when some great occasion is presented to him ; no 
man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then 
raise himself as high above the rest of poets, 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. 1 

The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eaton say, that 
there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, but he would 
produce it much better done in Shakspeare ; and however others 
are now generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein he 
lived, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, 
never equalled them to him in their esteem : and in the last king's 
court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, 
and with him the greater part of the courtiers, set our Shakspeare 
far above him. 

BEN JONSON. 

As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, if we look 
upon him while he was himself, (for his last plays were but his 
dotages,) I think him the most learned and judicious writer which 
any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as 
well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he 
was frugal of it. In his woiks you find little to retrench or alter. 
Wit, and language, and humor, also in some measure, we had be- 
fore him ; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he 
came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who 
preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his 
scenes, or endeavoring to move the passions ; his genius was too 
sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew 
he came after those who had performed both to such a height. 
Humor was his proper sphere ; and in that he delighted most to 
represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the 
ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from 

1 " As the cypj esses are wont to do among the slender shrubs." 



1689-1702.] DRYDEff. 353 

them ; there is scarce a poet or historian among- the Roman au- 
thors of those times, whom he has not translated in Sejarms and 
Catiline. But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may 
see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like 
a monarch ; and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory 
in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old 
Rome to us, in his rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of 
their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less 
of it than in him. If there was any fault in his language, 'twas 
that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies es- 
pecially : perhaps, too, he did a little too much Romanize our 
tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much 
Latin as he found them ; wherein, though he learnedly followed 
their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. 
If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge 
him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. 
Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets : Jon- 
son was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing: I admire 
him, but I love Shakspeare. 

CHAUCER AND COWLEY. 

In the first place, as he is the father of English poetry, so I 
hold him in the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held 
Homer, or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good 
sense, learned in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on 
all subjects. As he knew what to say, so he knows also when to 
leave off; a continence which is practised by few writers, and 
scarcely by any of the ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace. One 
of our late great poets 1 is sunk in his reputation, because he could 
never forgive any conceit which came in his way ; but swept, like 
a drag-net, great and small. There was plenty enough, but the 
dishes were ill-sorted ; whole pyramids of sweet-meats for boys 
and women, but little of solid meat for men. All this proceeded 
not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment. Neither did 
he want that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets, 
but only indulged himself in the luxury of writing ; and perhaps 
knew it was a fault, but hoped the reader would not find it. For 
this reason, though he must always be thought a great poet, he is 
no longer esteemed a good writer ; and for ten impressions, which 
his works have had in so many successive years, yet at present a 
hundred books are scarcely purchased once a twelve-month ; for, 
as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat profanely, Not 
being of God, he could not stand. 

Chaucer followed nature everywhere ; but was never so bold 
to go beyond her: and there is a great difference of being poeta* 

1 Cowley. 

Z 30* 



354 DRYDEN. [WILLIAM &, MART, 

and nimis poeta, 1 if we may believe Catullus, as much as betwixl 
a modest behavior and affectation. The verse of Chaucer, I con- 
fess, is not harmonious to us ; but it is like the eloquence of one 
whom Tacitus commends — it was auribus istius temporis accom* 
modata. 2 They who lived with him and sometime after him, 
thought it musical, and it continues so even in our judgment, if 
compared with the numbers of Lydgate and Gower, his contem- 
poraries : there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which 
is natural and pleasing, though not perfect. It is true, I cannot 
go so far as he who published the last edition of him ; 3 for he 
would make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there 
were really ten syllables in a verse, where we find but nine. But 
this opinion is not worth confuting ; it is so gross and obvious an 
error, that common sense (which is a rule in every thing but mat- 
ters of faith and revelation) must convince the reader, that equa- 
lity of numbers in every verse which we call heroic, was either 
not known, or not always practised in Chaucer's age. It were an 
easy matter to produce some thousands of his verses, which are 
lame for want of half a foot, and sometimes a whole one, and 
which no pronunciation can make otherwise. 4 We can only say, 
that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing is 
brought to perfection at the first. We must be children, before 
we grow men. There was an Ennius, and in process of time a 
Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Horace. Even after 
Chaucer, there was a Spenser, a Harrington, a Fairfax, before 
Waller and Denham were in being ; and our numbers were in 
their nonage till these last appeared. 

THE HEATHEN REASON AND REVELATION. 

It has always been my thought, that heathens who never did, 
nor without miracle could, hear of the name of Christ, were yet in 
a possibility of salvation. Neither will it enter easily into my be- 
lief, that before the coming of our Saviour, the whole world, ex- 
cepting only the Jewish nation, should lie under the inevitable 
necessity of everlasting punishment, for want of that revelation, 
which was confined to so small a spot of ground as that of Pales- 
tine. Among the sons of Noah we read of one only who was ac- 
cursed ; and if a blessing in the ripeness of time was reserved for 
Japhet, (of whose progeny we are,) it seems unaccountable to me, 
why so many generations of the same offspring as preceded our 
Saviour in the flesh, should be all involved in one common con- 

1 " A poet and too much of a poet:" by the latter expression is meant conceit and affectation in 
poetry. 

2 " Adapted to the ears of the times." 3 Speght, in 1597. 

4 This position, however, has been completely disproved by Mr. Tyrwhitt, who, in his edition of 
the Canteibury Tales, has admirably explained the versification and language of Chaucer, and 
shown the former to be in general correct. 



1689-1702.] drydbn. 355 

demnation, and yet that their posterity should be entitled to the 
hopes of salvation : as if a bill of exclusion had passed only on 
the fathers, which debarred not the sons from their succession. 
Or that so many ages had been delivered over to hell, and so 
many reserved for heaven, and that the devil had the first choice, 
and God the next. Truly, I am apt to think, that the revealed 
religion which was taught by Noah to all his sons, might continue 
for some ages in the whole posterity. That afterwards it was 
included wholly in the family of Sem, is manifest ; but when the 
progenies of Cham and Japhet swarmed into colonies, and those 
colonies were subdivided into many others, in process of time 
their descendants lost by little and little the primitive and purer 
rites of divine worship, retaining only the notion of one deity ; to 
which succeeding generations added others, for men took their 
degrees in those ages from conquerors to gods. Revelation being 
thus eclipsed to almost all mankind, the light of nature, as the next 
in dignity, was substituted ; and that is it which St. Paul con- 
cludes to be the rule of the heathens, and by which they are here- 
after to be judged. If my supposition be true, then the conse- 
quence which I have assumed in my poem may be also true ; 
namely, that Deism, or the principles of natural worship, are only 
the faint remnants or dying flames of revealed religion in the pos- 
terity of Noah : and that our modern philosophers, nay, and some 
of our philosophizing divines, have too much exalted the faculties 
of our souls, when they have maintained that, by their force, man- 
kind has been able to find out that there is one supreme agent or 
intellectual being, which we call God : that praise and prayer are 
his due worship ; and the rest of those deducements, which I am 
confident are the remote effects of revelation, and unattainable by 
our discourse ; I mean as simply considered, and without the bene- 
fit of divine illumination. So that we have not lifted up ourselves 
to God, by the weak pinions of our reason, but he has been pleased 
to descend to us ; and what Socrates said of him, what Plato writ, 
and the rest of the heathen philosophers of several nations, is all 
no more than the twilight of revelation, after the sun of it was set 
in the race of Noah. That there is something above us, some 
principle of motion, our reason can apprehend, though it cannot 
discover what it is by its own virtue. And indeed it is very im 
probable, that we, who by the strength of our faculties cannot enter 
into the knowledge of any Being, not so much as of our own, 
should be able to find out, by them, that supreme nature, which 
we cannot otherwise define than by saying it is infinite ; as if in- 
finite were definable, or infinity a subject for our narrow under- 
standing. They who would prove religion by reason, do but 
weaken the cause which they endeavor to support : it is to take 
away the pillars from our faith, and to prop it only with a twig* 



356 LOCKE. [ANNE, 

it is to design a tower like that of Babel, which, if it were possible, 
as it is not, to reach heaven, would come to nothing by the confu- 
sion of the workmen. For every man is building a several way ; 
im potently conceited of his own model and his own materials : 
reason is always striving, and always at a loss ; and of necessity 
it must so come to pass, while it is exercised about that which is 
not its proper object. Let us be content at last to know God by 
his own methods ; at least, so much of him as he is pleased to 
reveal to us in the sacred Scriptures : to apprehend them to be 
the word of God, is all our reason has to do ; for all beyond it is 
the work of faith, which is the seal of heaven impressed upon 
our human understanding. 



JOHN LOCKE. 1632—1704. 



Jom* Locke, the eminent philosophical writer, was born at Wrington, in 
Somersetshire, on the 29th of August, 1632. He was educated at Westminster 
school, and at the age of nineteen entered the University of Oxford. He 
applied himself with great diligence to the study of classical literature, and 
to the philosophical works of Bacon and Descartes. He made choice of medi- 
cine as a profession, and after taking his degrees in the arts, he practised for 
a short time in the university. But he was soon compelled to relinquish it 
from the weakness of his constitution. 

In 1664 he visited Berlin, as secretary to the English minister; but after 
a year he returned to Oxford, where he formed an acquaintance with Lord 
Ashley, afterwards the Earl of Shaftesbury, and accepted his invitation to 
reside in his house; where he became acquainted with some of the most emi- 
nent men of the day. Here he drew up a constitution for the government of 
South Carolina, which province had been granted by Charles II. to Lord Ash- 
ley, with seven others. 1 In 1670 he commenced his investigations in meta» 
physical philosophy, and laid the plan of that great work, his " Essay on the 
Human Understanding." In 1675, being apprehensive of consumption, Locke 
went to Montpelier, in France, and after residing there four years, he was 
invited to England by the Earl of Shaftesbury, who had been restored to favor 
and appointed president of the new council. But this prosperity was not of 
long duration, for in 1682 the earl was obliged to flee to Holland, to avoid a 
prosecution for high treason. Locke followed his patron, where, even after 
his death, he continued to reside, for the hostility felt towards Shaftesbury was 
transferred to Locke. On the Revolution of 1688, he returned with the fleet 
mat brought over the Prince of Orange ; and accepted the offer of apartments 
in the house of his friend Sir Francis Masham, in Oates, in Essex, where he 
resided for the remainder of his life, devoting it mostly to the study of the 
Scriptures, and died on the 28th of October, 1704. 

1 The main provisions of his constitution were, that "all men are free and equal by nature." and 
that "the object of government is the security of persons and property." What a melancholy re- 
flection it is, that a state which can trace its constitutional history to such a man as John Locke, 
should hold more than half of its population as "chattels personal, to all intents, constructions, and 
purposes whatsoever." 



1702-1714.] locke. 357 

The great work of Locke, and that which has immortalized his name, is 
(I.) his " Essay concerning Human Understanding." It applies the Baconian 
method of observation and experience to establish a theory of human know 
ledge, showing that we have no innate ideas ; that the only source of out 
knowledge is experience ; that this experience is twofold, either internal 01 
external, according as it is employed about sensible objects or the operations 
of our minds 5 and hence that there are two kinds of ideas, — ideas of sensa- 
tion, and ideas of reflection. These positions, with many others collateral and 
connected, this great work establishes on a basis that can never be shaken. 1 

His other works, scarcely inferior in value and importance to his " Essay," 
are, (2.) " On the Reasonableness of Christianity," published in 1695. This 
was intended to aid the reigning monarch, William III., in his design to recon- 
cile and unite all sects of professing Christians ; and accordingly, the object of 
the tract was to determine what, amid so many conflicting views of religion, 
were the points of belief common to all. (3.) " Letters on Toleration." 
(4.) " Two Treatises on Civil Government," in defence of the Revolution, 
and in answer to the partisans of the exiled king, who called the existing 
government a usurpation. In this he maintains conclusively, that the legiti- 
macy of a government depends solely and ultimately on the popular sanction, 
or the consent of men, making use of their reason, to unite and form societies. 
(5.) "Thoughts on Education." (6.) "A Discourse on Miracles." (7.) u para- 
phrases, with notes, of the Epistles of St. Paul," together with, (8.) an "Essay 
for the Understanding of St. Paul's Epistles, by consulting St. Paul himself." 
To these were added many minor treatises, with that most useful book, enti- 
tled "A New Method of a Common-Place Book." 

As to the style of Locke, Dr. Drake makes the following just remarks: 
" The diction he has adopted is, in general, such as does honor to his judg- 
ment. Relinquishing ornament and studied cadences, he is merely solicitous 
to convey his ideas with perspicuity and precision. No affectation, no con- 
ceits, no daring metaphors or inverted periods, disfigure his pages ; all is clear, 
easy, and natural, exhibiting a plain and simple style accommodated to the 
purposes of philosophy." 

As to his personal character, it was in complete harmony with the opinions, 
political, moral, and religious, which he so zealously and so ably advocated. 
A more happy combination of the Christian, the gentleman, and the scholar, 
has, perhaps, never been exhibited than in the person of this distinguished 
philosopher. While his talents were devoted to works which take the highest 
rank in English literature, his pure and virtuous life gave the most satisfactory 
proof of the practical efficacy of a piety, the sincerity of which was clearly proved 
by his efforts to show that all the parts of the Christian system are reconcilable 
to human reason. 2 

PRACTICE AND HABIT. 

We are born with faculties and powers capable almost of an} 
hing, such at least as would carry us farther than can be easily 

1 " Few books," says Sir James Mackintosh, " have contributed more to rectify prejudice, to under- 
mine established errors, to diffuse a just mode of thinking, to excite a fearless spirit of inquiry, and 
yet to contain it within the boundaries which nature has prescribed to the human understanding." 

2 " His writings have diffused throughout the civilized world the love of civil liberty; the spirit of 
toleration and charity in religious differences ; the disposition to reject whatever is obscure, fantas- 
tic, or hypothetical in speculation; to abandon problems which admit of no solution; to distrust 
whatever cannot be clearly expressed; and to prefer those studies which most directly contribute to 
human happiness." — Sir James Mackintosh. 



358 LOCKE. [ANNE, 

imagined ; but it is only the exercise of those powers which gives 
us ability and skill in any thing, and leads us towards perfection. 

A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever be brought to the 
carriage and language of a gentleman, though his body be as well 
proportioned, and his joints as supple, and his natural parts not anj 
way inferior. The legs of a dancing-master, and the fingers of a 
musician, fall, as it were, naturally, without thought or pains, into 
regular and admirable motions. Bid them change their parts, and 
they will in vain endeavor to produce like motions in the mem- 
bers not used to them, and it will require length of time and long 
practice to attain but some degrees of a like ability. What in- 
credible and astonishing actions do we find rope-dancers and 
tumblers bring their bodies to ! not but that sundry in almost all 
manual arts are as wonderful ; but I name those which the world 
takes notice of for such, because, on that very account, they give 
money to see them. All these admired motions, beyond the reach 
and almost the conception of unpractised spectators, are nothing 
but the mere effects of use and industry in men, whose bodies have 
nothing peculiar in them from those of the amazed lookers on. 

As it is in the body, so it is in the mind ; practice makes i< 
what it is ; and most even of those excellencies which are looked 
on as natural endowments, will be found, when examined into 
more narrowly, to be the product of exercise, and to be raised to 
that pitch only by repeated actions. Some men are remarked for 
pleasantness in raillery, others for apologues and apposite divert- 
ing stories. This is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature, 
and that the rather, because it is not got by rules, and those who 
excel in either of them, never purposely set themselves to the 
study of it as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true, that at first 
some lucky hit which took with somebody, and gained him com- 
mendation, encouraged him to try again, inclined his thoughts and 
endeavors that way, till at last he insensibly got a facility in it 
without perceiving how ; and that is attributed wholly to nature, 
which was much more the effect of use and practice. I do not 
deny that natural disposition may often give the first rise to it ; 
but that never carries a man far without use and exercise, and it 
is practice alone that brings the powers of the mind as well as 
those of the body to their perfection. Many a good poetic vein is 
buried under a trade, and never produces any thing for want of 
improvement. We see the ways of discourse and reasoning are 
very different, even concerning the same matter, at court and in 
the university. And he that will go but from Westminster Hall 
to the Exchange, will find a different genius and turn in their 
ways of talking ; and one cannot think that all whose lot fell in 
the city were born with different parts from those who were bred 
at the university or inns of court. 



1702-1714,] locke. 859 

To what purpose all this, hut to show that the difference, so 
observable in men's understandings and parts, does not arise so 
much from the natural faculties as acquired habits ? He would 
be laughed at that should go about to make a fine dancer out of a 
country hedger, at past fifty. And he will not have much better 
success who shall endeavor at that age to make a man reason well, 
or speak handsomely, who has never been used to it, though you 
should lay before him a collection of all the best precepts of logic 
or oratory. Nobody is made any thing by hearing of rules, or 
laying them up in his memory ; practice must settle the habit of 
doing, without reflecting on the rule ; and you may as well hope 
to make a good painter or musician, extempore, by a lecture and 
instruction in the arts of music and painting, as a coherent thinker, 
or strict reasoner, by a set of rules, showing him wherein right 
reasoning consists. 

This being so, that defects and weakness in men's understand 
ings, as well as other faculties, come from want of a right use of 
their own minds, I am apt to think the fault is generally mislaid 
upon nature, and there is often a complaint of want of parts, when 
the fault lies in want of a due improvement of them. We see 
men frequently dexterous and sharp enough in making a bargain, 
who, if you reason with thf m about matters of religion, appear 
perfectly stupid. 

INJUDICIOUS HASTE IN STUDY. 

The eagerness and strong bent of the mind after knowledge, if 
not warily regulated, is often a hinderance to it. It still presses 
into farther discoveries and new objects, and catches at the variety 
of knowledge, and therefore often stays not long enough on what 
is before it, to look into it as it should, for haste to pursue what is 
yet out of sight. He that rides post through a country may be 
able, from the transient view, to tell in general how the parts lie, 
and may be able to give some loose description of here a mountain 
and there a plain, here a morass and there a river ; woodland in 
one part and savannas in another. Such superficial ideas and 
observations as these he may collect in galloping over it ; but the 
more useful observations of the soil, plants, animals, and inha- 
bitants, with their several sorts and properties, must necessarily 
escape him ; and it is seldom men ever discover the rich mines 
without some digging. Nature commonly lodges her treasures 
and jewels in rocky ground. If the matter be knotty, and the 
sense lies deep, the mind must stop and buckle to it, and stick 
upon it with labor and thought, and close contemplation, and not 
^eave it until it has mastered the difficulty and got possession of 
truth. But here, care must be taken to avoid the other extreme j 
a man murt not stick at every useless nicety, and expect myste- 



380 LOCKE. [annjs, 

ries of science in every trivial question or scruple that he may- 
raise. He that will stand to pick up and examine every pebble 
i hat comes in his way, is as unlikely to return enriched and laden 
with jewels, as the other that travelled full speed. Truths are 
not the better nor the worse for their obviousness or difficulty, but 
their value is to be measured by their usefulness and tendency. 
Insignificant observations should not take up any of our minutes; 
and those that enlarge our view, and give light towards further 
and useful discoveries, should not be neglected, though they stop 
tfur course, and spend some of our time in a fixed attention. 

IMPORTANCE OF MORAL EDUCATION. 

Under whose care soever a child is put to be taught during the 
tender and flexible years of his life, this is certain ; it should be 
one who thinks Latin and languages the least part of education ; 
one who, knowing how much virtue and a well-tempered soul is 
to be preferred to any sort of learning or language, makes it his 
chief business to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a 
right disposition ; which, if once got, though all the rest should be 
neglected, would in due time produce all the rest ; and which, if 
it be not got, and settled so as to keep out ill and vicious habits — 
languages, and sciences, and all the other accomplishments of 
education, will be to no purpose but to make the worse or more 
dangerous man. 1 

THE RIGHT IMPROVEMENT OF HISTORY. 

The stories of Alexander and Caesar, farther than they instruct 
us in the art of living well, and furnish us with observations of 
wisdom and prudence, are not one jot to be preferred to the his- 
tory of Robin Hood, or the Seven Wise Masters. I do not deny 
but history is very useful, and very instructive of human life ; but 
if it be studied only for the reputation of being an historian, it is a 
very empty thing ; and he that can tell all the particulars of Hero- 
dotus and Plutarch, Curtius and Livy, without making any other 
use of them, may be an ignorant man with a good memory, and 
with all his pains hath only filled his head with Christmas tales. 
And, which is worse, the greatest part of history being made up 
of wars and conquests, and their style, especially the Romans, 
speaking of valor as the chief if not the only virtue, we are in 



1 " Next in rank and in efficacy to that pure and holy source of moral influence— the mother— ia 
that of the schoolmaster. It is powerful already. What would it be if, in every one of those school- 
districts which we now count by annually increasing thousands, there were to be found one teacher 
well-informed without pedantry, religious without bigotry or fanaticism, proud and fond of his pro- 
fession, and honored in the discharge of its duties I How wide would be the intellectual, the moral 
influence of such a body of men. But to raise up a body of such men, as numerous as the wants 
and dignity of the country demand, their labors must be fitly remunerated, and themselves and their 
Calling cherished and honored."— Discourse of Hon. Gutian C. Veiylanck, of New York. 



1702-1714.] locke. 361 

danger to be misled b) the general current and business of his- 
tory ; and, looking on Alexander and Caesar, and such-like heroes, 
as the highest instances of human greatness, because they each 
of them caused the death of several hundred thousand men, and 
the ruin of a much greater number, overran a great part of the 
earth, and killed the inhabitants to possess themselves of their 
countries — we are apt to make butchery and rapine the chief 
marks and very essence of human greatness. And if civil history 
be a great dealer of it, and to many readers thus useless, curious 
and difficult inquirings in antiquity are much more so ; and the 
exact dimensions of the Colossus, or figure of the Capitol, the cere- 
monies of the Greek and Roman marriages, or who it was that 
first coined money ; these, I confess, set a man well off in the 
world, especially amongst the learned, but set him very little on in 
his way. * * 

I shall only add one word, and then conclude : and that is, that 
whereas in the beginning I cut off history from our study as a 
useless part, as certainly it is where it is read only as a tale that 
is told ; here, on the other side, I recommend it to one who hath 
well settled in his mind the principles of morality, and knows how 
to make a judgment on the actions of men, as one of the most 
useful studies he can apply himself to. There he shall see a pic- 
ture of the world and the nature of mankind, and so learn to think 
of men as they are. There he shall see the rise of opinions, and 
find from what slight and sometimes shameful occasions some of 
them have taken their rise, which yet afterwards have had great 
authority, and passed almost for sacred in the world, and borne 
down ail before them. There, also, one may learn great and 
useful instructions of prudence, and be warned against the cheats 
and rogueries of the world, with many more advantages which [ 
shall not here enumerate. 

ORTHODOXY AND HERESY. 

The great division among Christians is about opinions. Every 
sect has its set of them, and that is called Orthodoxy ; and he that 
professes his assent to them, though with an implicit faith, and 
without examining, is orthodox, and in the way to salvation. But 
if he examines, and thereupon questions any one of them, he is 
presently suspected of heresy ; and if he oppose them or hold the 
contrary, he is presently condemned as in a damnable error, and 
in the sure way to perdition. Of this, one may say, that there is 
nor can be nothing more wrong. For he that examines, and upon 
a fair examination embraces an error for a truth, has done his duty 
more than he who embraces the profession (for the truths them- 
selves he does not embrace) of the truth, without having examined 
whether it be true or no. And he that has done his duty accord- 

31 



3G2 SOUTH. [GEORGE I. 

mg to the best of Lis ability, is certainly more in the way to hea- 
ven than he who has done nothing of it. For if it be our duty to 
search after truth, he certainly that has searched after it, though 
he has not found it, in some points has paid a more acceptable 
obedience to the will of his Maker, than he that has not searched 
at all, but professes to have found truth, when he has neither 
searched nor found it. For he that takes up the opinions of any 
church in the lump, without examining them, has truly neither 
searched after nor found truth, but has only found those that he 
thinks have found truth, and so receives what they say with an 
implicit faith, and so pays them the homage that is due only to 
God, who cannot be deceived, nor deceive. In this way the seve- 
ral churches (in which, as one may observe, opinions are pre- 
ferred to life, and orthodoxy is that which they are concerned for, 
and not morals) put the terms of salvation on that which the Author 
of our salvation does not put them in. The believing of a collec- 
tion of certain propositions, which are called and esteemed funda- 
mental articles, because it has pleased the compilers to put them 
into their confession of faith, is made the condition of salvation. 

DUTY OF PRESERVING HEALTH. 

If by gaining knowledge we destroy our health, we labor for a 
thing that will be useless in our hands ; and if, by harassing our 
bodies, (though with a design to render ourselves more useful,) we 
deprive ourselves of the abilities and opportunities of doing that 
good we might have done with a meaner talent, which God thought 
sufficient for us, by having denied us the strength to improve it 
to that pitch which men of stronger constitutions can attain to, we 
rob God of so much service, and our neighbor of all that help 
which, in a state of health, with moderate knowledge, we might 
have been able to perform. He that sinks his vessel by overload- 
ing it, though it be with gold, and silver, and precious stones, will 
give his owner but an ill account of his voyage. 



ROBERT SOUTH. 1633—1716. 



Dh. Robert South, a divine celebrated for his wit as well as his learning 
was born at Hackney, in Middlesex, in 1633, being the son of a London mer- 
chant. He entered Westminster school, under Dr. Busby, in 1647, and on the 
day of the execution of Charles I., (January 20, 1649,) he read the Latin prayers 
in the school, and prayed for his majesty by name; apparently an indication 
that even then he had embraced those principles of attachment to the estab- 
lished form of government, m church and state, of which he was through all 
his life a most strenuous and able champion. In one of his sermons, for in- 
stance, he maintains tnat "kings are endowed with more than ordinary sa- 
gacity art) quickness of understanding; they have a singular courage and 



1714-17270 south. 363 

presence of mind in cases of difficulty ; and their hearts are disposed to virtu- 
ous courses." One is astonished that a man of learning and sense could be 
so blinded by party feeling as to utter such sentiments. But he was exceed, 
ingly violent in his feelings, continuing through life to pour forth upon all sects 
that dissented from the church of England, as well as upon all who doubted 
the " divine right" of kings to rule their subjects with unrestricted sway, his 
inexhaustible sarcasm, ridicule, and contempt. He died in 1716. 

As a writer, Dr. South is conspicuous for good practical sense, for a deep 
insight into human character, f£r liveliness of imagination, and exuberant in- 
vention, and for a wit that knew not always the limit of propriety. In per- 
spicuity, copiousness, and force of expression, he has few superiors among 
English writers ; which qualities fully compensate for the " forced conceits, 
unnatural metaphors, and turgid and verbose language which occasionally 
disfigure his pages." l 

THE WILL FOR THE DEED. 

The third instance in which men used to plead the will instead 
of the deed, shall be in duties of cost and expense. 

Let a business of expensive charity be proposed ; and then, as 
I showed before, that, in matters of labor, the lazy person could 
find no hands wherewith to work ; so neither, in this case, can 
the religious miser find any hands wherewith to give. It is 
wonderful to consider how a command or call to be liberal, either 
upon a civil or religious account, all of a sudden impoverishes the 
rich, breaks the merchant, shuts up every private man's ex- 
chequer, and makes those men in a minute have nothing, who, at 
the very same instant, want nothing to spend. So that, instead 
of relieving the poor, such a command strangely increases their 
number, and transforms rich men into beggars presently. For, 
let the danger of their prince and country knock at their purses, 
and call upon them to contribute against a public enemy or ca- 
lamity, then immediately they have nothing, and their riches upon 
such occasions (as Solomon expresses it) never fail to make them- 
selves wings, and fly away. 

But do men in good earnest think that God will be put off so f 
or can they imagine that the law of God will be baffled with a lie 
clothed in a scoff? 

For such pretences are no better, as appears from that notab'e 
account given us by the apostle of this windy, insignificant charity 
of the will, and of the worthlessness of it, not enlivened by deeds . 
" If a brother or a sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and 
one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and 
filled ; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are 
needful to the body ; what doth it profit ?" Profit, does he say ? 
Why, it profits just as much as fair words command the market, 
as good wishes buy food and raiment, ar;d pass for current pay- 
ment in the shops. 

1 Read— an article in "Retrospect! T e Review," ix. 291. 



864 SOUTH. [GEORGE I. 

Come we now to a rich old pretender to godliness, and tell him 
that there is such a one, a man of good family, good education, 
and who has lost all his estate for the king, now ready to rot in 
prison for debt ; come, what will you give towards his release ? 
Why, then answers the will instead of the deed, as much the 
readier speaker of the two, " The truth is, I always had a respect 
for such men; I love them with all my heart; and it is a thousand 
pities that any that had served the king- so faithfully should be in 
such want." So say I too, and the more shame is it for the whole 
nation that they should be so. But still, what will you give ? 
Why, then, answers the man of mouth-charity again, and tells 
you that " you could not come in a worse time ; that now-a-dayy 
money is very scarce with him, and that therefore he can oive 
nothing ; but he will be sure to pray for the poor gentleman." 

Ah, thou hypocrite ! when thy brother has lost all that ever he 
had, and lies languishing, and even gasping under the utmost 
extremities of poverty and distress, dost thou think thus to lick hirn 
up again only with thy tongue 1 Just like that old formal hocus, 
who denied a beggar a farthing, and put him off with his blessing. 

Why, what are the prayers of a covetous wretch worth ? what 
will thy blessing go for ? what will it buy ? Is this the charity 
that the apostle here, in the text, presses upon the Corinthians ? * 
This the case in which God accepts the willingness of the mind 
instead of the liberality of the purse ? No, assuredly ; but the 
measures that God marks out to thy charity are these: thy super- 
fluities must give place to thy neighbor's great convenience ; thy 
convenience must veil thy neighbor's necessity; and, lastly, thy 
very necessities must yield to thy neighbor's extremity. 

COVETOUSNESS. 

Of covetousness we may truly say, that it makes both the Alpha 
and Omega in the devil's alphabet, and that it is the first vice in 
corrupt nature which moves, and the last which dies. For lock 
upon any infant, and as aoon as it can but move a hand, we shall 
see it reaching out after something or other which it should not 
have ; and he who does not know it to be the proper and peculiar 
sin of old age, seems himself to have the dotage of that age upon 
him, whether he has the years or no. 

The covetous person lives as if the world were made altogether 
for him, and not he for the world, to take in every thing, and to 
part with nothing. Charity is accounted no grace with him, nor 
gratitude any virtue. The cries of the poor never enter into hii 
ears ; or if they do, he has always one ear readier to let them out 
than the other to take them in. In a word, by his rapines and 

l " For if there be first a -willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath and not aecord- 
•nar to that he hath tot." — 2 Cor. viii. 12. 



1714-1727.] south. 365 

extortions, he is always for making- as many poor as he can, hut 
for relieving none whom he either finds or makes so. So that it 
is a question, whether his heart be harder, or his fist closer. In 
a word, he is a pest and a monster : greedier than the sea, and 
barrener than the shore. 

THE GLORY OF THE CLERGY. 

God is the fountain of honor; and the conduit by which he 
conveys it to the sons of men are virtues and generous practices. 
Some, indeed, may please and promise themselves high matters 
from full revenues, stately palaces, court interests, and great de- 
oendences. But that which makes the clergy glorious, is to be 
snowing in their profession, unspotted in their lives, active and 
aborious in their charges, bold and resolute in opposing seducers, 
and daring to look vice in the face, though never so potent and 
illustrious. 1 And, lastly, to be gentle, courteous, and compassion- 
ate to all. These are our robes and our maces, our escutcheons 
and highest titles of honor. 

THE PLEASURES OF AMUSEMENT AND INDUSTRY COMPARED. 

Nor is that man less deceived that thinks to maintain a constant 
tenure of pleasure by a continual pursuit of sports and recrea- 
tions. The most voluptuous and loose person breathing, were he 
but tied to follow his hawks and his hounds, his dice and his court- 
ships every day, would find it the greatest torment and calamity 
that could befall him ; he would fly to the mines and galleys for 
his recreation, and to the spade and the mattock for a diversion 
from the misery of a continual unintermitted pleasure. But, on 
the contrary, the providence of God has so ordered the course of 
things, that there is no action, the usefulness of which has made 
It the matter of duty and of a profession, but a man may bear the 
continual pursuit of it without loathing and satiety. The same 
mop and trade that employs a man in his youth, employs him also 
n his age. Every morning he rises fresh to his hammer and 
**nvil; he passes the day singing; custom has naturalized his 
labor to him ; his shop is his element, and he cannot with any 
enjoyment of himself live out of it. 

THE EYE OF CONSCIENCE. 

That the eye of conscience may be always quick and lively, let 
constant use be sure to keep it constantly open, and thereby ready 

l This is in accordance with Ezekiel xxxiii. 1—6. The ancient prophets, faithful and fearless men, 
thinking more of "the heathen" at home than "the heathen" abroad, did rot reprove the Jews for 
the sins of the people of Kamtschatka; but it was, "wash you, make you clean; put away Hie 
evil of your doings; seek justice; break every yoke; loose the bands or wickedness, and let the 
oppressed go free," &c. Whenever and wherever the pulpit is silent on great national sins, It is 
felbe to its high and holy trust. Even bad men will respect faithfulness more than ? time-serving 
silence. 

31* 



366 PARNELL. [GEORGE I. 

and prepared to admit and Jet in those heavenly beams which are 
always streaming forth from God upon minds fitted to receive 
them. And to this purpose let a man fly from every thing which 
may leave either a foulness or a hias upon it ; let him dread every 
gross act of sin ; for one great stab may as certainly and speedily 
destroy life as forty lesser wounds. Let him carry a jealous eye 
over every growing habit of sin : let him keep aloof from all com- 
merce and fellowship with any vicious and base affection, espe- 
cially from all sensuality : let him keep himself untouched with the 
hellish, unhallowed heats of lust and the noisome steams and ex- 
halations of intejnperance : let him bear himself above that sordid 
and low thing, thair utter contradiction to all greatness of mind — 
covetousness : let him disenslave himself from the pelf of the 
world, from that amor sceleratus habendi. 1 Lastly, let him learn 
so to look upon the honors, the pomp, and greatness of the world, 
as to look through them. v \Fools indeed are apt to be blown up by 
them and to sacrifice all for them : sometimes venturing their 
heads only to get a feather in their caps. 



THOMAS PARNELL. 1679—1717. 

Thomas Parxexl was born in Dublin in 1679. After receiving the ele 
ments of education at a grammar-school, he was admitted to the University of 
Dublin ; after leaving which he was ordained a deacon, in 1700, and in fivr 
years afterwards, he was promoted to the archdeaconry of Clogher. Up to 
this time he had sided with the Tory party, but now found it convenient tG 
change his politics; he therefore went over to the Whigs, who received him 
with open arms, deeming him a valuable auxiliary to their cause. Parnell 
endeavored to recommend himself by his eloquence in the pulpits of London, 
but from the new ministry he received nothing more substantial than caresses 
and empty protestations. To imbitter his disappointment, he lost, in 1712, his 
amiable wife, to whom he was affectionately devoted. His private friends, 
however, were not unmindful of his interests, and obtained for him a vicarage 
in the vicinity of Dublin, worth £400 per annum : but he did not live long to 
enjoy his promotion. He died in 1717, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. 

"The compass of Parnell's poetry is not extensive, but its tone is peculiarly 
delightful : not from mere correctness of expression, to which some critics 
have stinted its praises, but from the graceful and reserved sensibility that 
accompanied his polished phraseology. The studied happiness of his diction 
does not spoil its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that has been trained 
and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured 
state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air." 2 

The poem by which Parnell is chiefly known, is " The Hermit," which has 
always been a favorite with every class of readers. It is a revolving pano- 
rama of beautiful pictures, each perfect in itself. But the story is not original, 
as it appeared as early as the fifteenth century in a collection of tales entitled 



Tli;it vvicl.e.l love of acquisition. 



1714-1727.] PARNELL. 367 

the " Gesta Romanorum," and we present the v N ader with the analysis of it 
below, as given by Warton in his History of Engi. sk Poetry. 1 The poem, how- 
ever, is too long for our limits, and no extracts wou'd do it justice ; but we will 
give a few lines to show its style. The last instar.ce of the angel's seeming 
injustice, is that of pushing the guide from the bridge into the river. At this 
the Hermit is unable to suppress his indignation : 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the Father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bonds of fear, and madly cries, 
"Detested wretch!" — but scarce his speech began, 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man : 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his ^air; 
Celestial odors fill the purple air ; 
And wings, whose colors giitterd on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Another very interesting piece of Parnelfs is his ballad, " Edwin of the 
Green, a fairy tale, in the ancient English style :" but its length excludes it 



1 A devout hermit lived in a cave, near which a shepherd folded his flock. Many of the sheep being 
stolen, the shepherd was unjustly killed by his master, as being concerned in the theft. The hermit, 
seeing an innocent man put to death, began to suspect the existence of a Divine Providence, and 
resolved no longer to perplex himself with the useless severities of religion, but to mix in the world. 
In travelling from his retirement, he was met by an angel in the figure of a man, who said, "I am an 
angel, and am sent by God to be your companion on the road." They entered a city, and begged for 
lodging at the house of a knight, who entertained them at a splendid supper. In the night, the angel 
rose from his bed and strangled the knight's only child, who was asleep in the cradle. The hermit 
was astonished at this barbarous return for so much hospitality, but was afraid to make any remon- 
strance to his companion. Next morning they went to another city. Here they were liberally re- 
ceived in the house of an opulent citizen; but in the night the angel rose, and stole a golden cup 
of inestimable value. The hermit now concluded that his companion was a bad angel. In travelling 
forward the next morning, they passed over a bridge, about the middle of which they met a poor 
man, of whom the angel asked the way to the next city. Having received the desired information, 
the angel pushed the poor man into the water, where he was immediately drowned. In the evening 
they arrived at the house of a rich man, and begging for a lodging, were ordered to sleep in a shed 
with the cattle. In the morning the angel gave the rich man the cup which he had stolen. The 
hermit, amazed that the cup which was stolen from their friend and benefactor should be given to 
one who refused them a lodging, began to be now convinced that his companion was the devil; and 
begged to go on alone. But the angel said, "Hear me, and depart. When you lived in your hermit- 
age, a shepherd was killed by his master. He was innocent of the supposed offence; but had he 
not been then killed, he would have committed crimes in which he would have died impenitent. His 
master endeavors to atone for the murder, by dedicating the remainder of his days to alms and 
deeds of charity. I strangled the child of the knight. But know, that the father was so intent on 
heaping up riches for his child, as to neglect those acts of public munificence for which he was before 
so distinguished, and to which he has now returned. I stole the golden cup of the hospitable citi- 
zen. But know, that from a life of the strictest temperance, he became, in consequence of possessing 
this cup, a perpetual drunkard, and is now the most abstemious of men. I threw the poor man into 
the water. He was then honest and religious. But know, had he walked one half of a mile further, 
he would have murdered a man in a state of mortal sin. I gave the golden cup to the rich man, who 
refused to take us within his roof. He has therefore received his reward in this world, and in the 
next will suffer the pains of hell for his inhospitality." The hermit fell prostrate at the angel's feet, 
and, requesting forgiveness, returned to his hermitage, fully c> nvinced of the wisdom and justice of 
God's government. 



PARNELL. [GEORGE I. 

from our puges. The following very beautiful " Hymn to Contentment" will, 
however, give a very good idea of this author's manner : — 

HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below, 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, whither art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek, contented head ; 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way, 
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That Solitude's the nurse of woe. 
No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o'er the ground : 
Or in a soul exalted high, 
To range the circuit of the sky, 
Converse with stars above, and know 
All Nature in its forms below ; 
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
And doubts at last for knowledge rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 

Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved : 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confess'd the presence of his grace. 
When thus she spoke — Go rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still, 
Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
The J03 r s which from religion flow : 
Then every grace shall prove its guest, 
And I'll be there to crown the rest. 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat, 
Might I thus my soul employ, 



J 714-1727.] penn. 369 

With sense of gratitude and joy : 
Raised as ancient prophets were, 
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
Pleased and bless'd with God alone : 
Then while the gardens take my sight, 
With all the colors of delight ; 
While silver waters glide along, 
To please my ear, and court my song ; 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
And thee, great Source of Nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way, 
To light the world, and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrow'd light; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night; 
The seas that roll unnumber d waves ; 
The wood that spreads its shady leave 4 ; 
The field whose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain; 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 

Go search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes ; 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or own the next begun in this. ■ 



WILLIAM PENN. 1644—1718. 



We come now to one of the purest and most exalted characters on the page 
of history ; — to one who laid the foundation of a great state in the strictest jus- 
tice and equity ; established the utmost freedom of conscience in religion ; and 
demonstrated to the world that the most potent weapons to subdue the savage 
heart, are the peace principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

William Penn, the only son of Admiral Penn, was born in London, Octo- 
ber 14, 1644. His early education was very carefully attended to, and in 
1660 he entered Oxford University. His first bias towards the doctrines of 
the Society of Friends was produced by the preaching of Thomas Loe, the 
effect of which was, that Penn and some of his fellow-students withdrew from 
attendance on the public worship of the established church, and held private 
prayer meetings. They were fined by the college, but this did not deter 
them. The principles which he adopted displeased his father very much, 
who repeatedly banished him from his house; but when it appeared that his 
son's opinions were unalterable, a reconciliation took place between them. 
In 1668, he began to preach, and also published his first work, " Truth Ex- 
alted." Like many others of the early Friends, Penn was repeatedly thrown 
into prison ; and during his confinement in the Tower of London, he wrote 
his most popular work, " No Cross, no Crown," — an able exposition of the 
views of his society. In 1670 the Conventicle act was passed, and Penn was 
one of the first sufferers under it. He was tried for preaching to what was 
called "a riotous and seditious assembly;" but the jury, in opposition to the 
2 A 



370 PENN. [geokge l 

direction of the bench, had the firmness and moral courage to give a verdict 
of acquittal. 

We now come to the most important event of Penn's life, — the establish- 
ment of the colcny of Pennsylvania. In 1681 a large tract of country on the 
west side of the Delaware was granted by Charles II. to Penn and his heirs 
in consideration of a debt of £16,000 due from the Crown to Admiral Penn, 
for money advanced for the service of the navy. He set sail from England 
in August, 1682, in the ship Welcome, and arrived at Newcastle on the 27th 
of October, where he was hailed with acclamations by the Swedes and Dutch 
already there. Thence the colony proceeded up the river, and in the latter 
end of the year located the town and borough of Philadelphia, " having a 
high and dry bank next to the water, with a shore ornamented with a fine 
view of pine trees growing upon it." Penn solemnly declared that he " came 
to the charge of the province for the Lord's sake." " I wanted," says he, " to 
afford an asylum to the good and oppressed of every nation. I aimed to form 
a government which might be an example. I desired to show men as free 
and happy as they could be. I had also kind views towards the Indians." 

In about two years Penn was called to return back to England ; and from 
his intimacy with James II., he was enabled to procure the release of his 
Quaker brethren, of whom fourteen hundred and eighty were in prison at the 
accession of that monarch. Indeed he was perpetually engaged in deeds of 
kindness for his people, at the same time endeavoring to clear the way for 
his return, and to bring out his family to abide for life. But various obstacles 
hindered him from year to year, so that it was not till 1699 that he and his 
family embarked for America. They arrived in November, and were received 
with universal joy, on account of his known intention to stay for life. But in 
this intention he was overruled, partly by the owners of land in Pennsylvania, 
dwelling in England, who felt that Penn could plead their interests with the 
crown better than any other one ; and partly by the female members of the 
family, who, after the style to which they had been accustomed, could not 
well bear the rude and unformed state of things in the new colony. He says 
in a letter to James Logan, July, 1701: "I cannot prevail on my wife to 
stay, and still less with Tishe. 1 I know not what to do." Accordingly he 
returned the latter part of that year ; and after experiencing various vicissi- 
tudes, and especially the most heartless ingratitude from those whom he had 
most served, he died at his seat in Ruscombe, in Berkshire, July 30, 1718. 

Penn was the author of numerous works, which were collected and pub- 
lished in 1726, in two volumes, folio. Besides the many able works in de- 
fence of the religious views of his sect, he wrote others which would be 
considered of more general interest. Of these are his " Reflections and 
Maxims relating to the Conduct of Life." It is doubtful whether any other 
work of the size can be found, containing so much sound, practical wisdom. 
The following is the preface to the same : — 

PREFACE TO HIS " MAXIMS." 

Reader, this Enchiridion 2 I present thee with, is the fruit of 
solitude : a school few care to learn in, though none instruct us 
better. Some parts of it are the result of serious reflection, others 

1 His daughter Letitia. 

2 A Greek word, compounded of en (sv), "in," and cheir (x«P)i "the hand," and corresponds to 
our word "manual." See toe same word in the selections from Gluarles, page 188. 



1714-1727.] penn. 37* 

the flashings of lucid intervals, written for private satisfaction, and 
now published for a help to human conduct. 

The author blesseth God for his retirement, and kisses that 
gentle hand which led him into it : for though it should prove 
barren to the world, it can never do &o to him. 

He has now had some time he could call his own, a property 
he was never so much master of before : in which he has taken 
a view of himself and the world ; and observed wherein he hath 
hit and missed the mark ; what might have been done, what 
mended, and what avoided in his human conduct : together with 
the omissions and excesses of others, as well societies and govern- 
ments, as private families and persons. And he verily thinks, 
were he to live over his life again, he could not only, with God's 
grace, serve him, but his neighbor and himself, better than he 
hath done, and have seven years of his time to spare. And yet, 
perhaps, he hath not been the worst or the idlest man in the 
world ; nor is he the oldest. And this is the rather said, that it 
might quicken thee, reader, to lose none of the time that is yet 
thine. 

There is nothing of which we are apt to be so lavish as of time, 
and about which we ought to be more solicitous ; since without it 
Ave can do nothing in this world. Time is what we want most, 
but what, alas ! we use worst ; and for which God will certainly 
most strictly reckon with us, when time shall be no more. 

It is of that moment to us in reference to both worlds, that I can 
hardly wish any man better, than that he would seriously consider 
what he does with his time ; how and to what end he employs it; 
and what returns he makes to God, his neighbor, and himself for 
it. Will he never have a ledger for this ; this, the greatest wis- 
dom and work of life ? 

To come but once into the world, and trifle away our true en- 
joyment of it, and of ourselves in it, is lamentable indeed. This 
one reflection would yield a thinking person great instruction. 
And, since nothing below man can so think, man in being thought- 
less must needs fall below himself. And that, to be sure, such do, 
as are unconcerned in the use of their most precious time. 

This is but too evident, if w T e will allow ourselves to consider, 
that there is hardly any thing we take by the right end, or im- 
prove to its just advantage. 

We understand little of the works of God, either in nature or 
grace. We pursue false knowledge, and mistake education ex- 
tremely. We are violent in our affections ; confused and imme- 
thodical in our whole life : making that a burden which was 
given for a blessing ; and so of little comfort to ourselves or others ; . 
misapprehending the true notion of happiness, and so missing of 
the right use of life, and way of happy living. 



372 PENN. [GEORGE I. 

And until we are persuaded to stop, and step a little aside, out 
of the noisy crowd and encumbering hurry of the world, and 
calmly take a prospect of things, it will be impossible we should 
be able to make a right judgment of ourselves, or know our own 
misery. But after we have made the just reckonings, which re- 
tirement will help us to, we shall begin to think the world in 
great measure mad, and that we have been in a sort of Bedlam 
all this while. 

Reader, whether young or old, think it not too soon or too late 
to turn over the leaves of thy past life ; and be sure to fold down 
where any passage of it may affect thee ; and bestow thy remain- 
der of time, to correct those faults in thy future conduct, be it in 
relation to this or the next life. What thou wouldst do, if what 
thou hast done were to do again, be sure to do as long as thou 
livest, upon the like occasions. 

Our resolutions seem to be vigorous as often as we reflect upon 
our past errors ; but, alas ! they are apt to flag again upon fresh 
temptations to the same things. 

The author does not pretend to deliver thee an exact piece ; his 
business not being ostentation, but charity. It is miscellaneous in 
the matter of it, and by no means artificial in the composure. But 
it contains hints, that may serve thee for texts to preach to thyself 
upon, and which comprehend much of the course of human life : 
since whether thou art parent or child, prince or subject, master 
or servant, single or married, public or private, mean or honorable, 
rich or poor, prosperous or unprosperous, in peace or controversy, 
in business or solitude ; whatever be thy inclination or aversion, 
practice or duty, thou wilt find something not unsuitably said for 
thy direction ana advantage. Accept and improve what deserves 
thy notice ; the rest excuse, and place to account of good-will to 
thee and the whole creation of God. 

penn's advice to his children. 1 
Next, betake yourself to some honest, industrious course of life, 
and that not of sordid covetousness, but for example, and to avoid 
idleness. And if you change your condition and marry, choose 
with the knowledge and consent of your mother, if living, or of 
guardians, or those that have the charge of you. Mind neither 
beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amia- 
ble disposition, such as you can love above all this world, and that 
may make your habitations pleasant and desirable to you. 

And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and meek. 
Live in the fear of the Lord, and he will bless you and your off- 
spring. Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, neither be 

i Read, espjcially, " Life by Samuel M. Janney," undoubtedly the life of Penn. Also, an admira- 
ble " Discourse on the Virtues and Public Services of William Penn," by Albert Barnes. 



1714-1727.] penn. 373 

beholden to any. Ruin not yourselves by kindness to others ; for 
that exceeds the due bounds of friendship, neither will a true 
friend expect it. Small matters I heed not. 

Let your industry and parsimony go no further than for a suffi- 
ciency for life, and to make a provision for your children, and that 
in moderation, if the Lord gives you any. I charge you help the 
poor and needy ; let the Lord have a voluntary share of your in- 
come for the good of the poor, both in our society and others ; for 
we are all his creatures ; remembering that " he that giveth to the 
poor lendeth to the Lord." 

Know well your incomings, and your outgoings may be better 
regulated. Love not money nor the world : use them only, and 
they will serve you ; but if you love them you serve them, which 
will debase your spirits as well as offend the Lord. 

Pity the distressed, and hold out a hand of help to them ; it 
may be your case, and as you mete to others, God will mete to 
you again. 

Be humble and gentle in your conversation ; of few words I 
charge you, but always pertinent when you speak, hearing out 
before you attempt to answer, and then speaking as if you would 
persuade, not impose. 

Affront none, neither revenge the affronts that are done to you ; 
but forgive, and you shall be forgiven of your heavenly Father. 

In making friends, consider well first ; and when you are fixed, 
be true, not wavering by reports, nor deserting in affliction, for 
that becomes not the good and virtuous. 

Watch against anger ; neither speak nor act in it ; for, like 
drunkenness, it makes a man a beast, and throws people into des- 
perate inconveniences. 

Avoid flatterers, for they are thieves in disguise ; their praise 
is costly, designing to get by those they bespeak ; they are the 
worst of creatures ; they lie to flatter, and flatter to cheat ; and, 
which is worse, if you believe them, you cheat yourselves most 
dangerously. But the virtuous, though poor, love, cherish, and 
prefer. Remember David, who, asking the Lord, " Who shall 
abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell upon thy holy hill?" 
answers, " He that walketh uprightly, worketh righteousness, and 
speaketh the truth in his heart ; in whose eyes the vile person is 
contemned, but honoreth them who fear the Lord." 

Next, my children, be temperate in all things : in your diet, 
for that is physic by prevention ; it keeps, nay, it makes people 
healthy, and their generation sound. This is exclusive of the 
spiritual advantage it brings. Be also plain in your apparel , 
keep out that lust which reigns too much over some ; let your 
virtues be your ornaments, remembering life is more than food, 
and the body than raiment. Let your furniture be simple and 

32 



374 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

cheap. Avoid pride, avarice, and luxury. Read my " No Cross, 
no Crown." There is instruction. Make your conversation with 
the most eminent for wisdom and piety, and shun all wicked men 
as you hope for the blessing of God and the comfort of your father's 
living and dying prayers. Be sure you speak no evil of any, no, 
not of the meanest ; much less of your superiors, as magistrates, 
guardians, tutors, teachers, and elders in Christ. 

Be no busybodies ; meddle not with other folk's matters, but 
when in conscience and duty pressed ; for it procures trouble, and 
is ill manners, and very unseemly to wise men. 

In your families remember Abraham, Moses, and Joshua, their 
integrity to the Lord, and do as you have them for your examples. 

Let the fear and service of the living God be encouraged in 
your houses, and that plainness, sobriety, and moderation in all 
things, as becometh God's chosen people ; and as I advise you, 
my beloved children, do you counsel yours, if God should give 
you any. Yea, I counsel and command them as my posterity, 
that they love and serve the Lord God with an upright heart, that 
he may bless you and yours from generation to generation. 

And as for you, who are likely to be concerned in the govern- 
ment of Pennsylvania and my parts of East Jersey, especially the 
first, I do charge you before the Lord God and his holy angels, 
that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, fearing God, loving the 
peop/e, and hating covetousness. Let justice have its impartial 
course, and the law free passage. Though to your Joss, protect 
no man against it ; for you are not above the law, but the law 
above you. Live, therefore, the lives yourselves you would have 
the people live, and then you have right and boldness to punish 
the transgressor. Keep upon the square, for God sees you : 
therefore, do your duty, and be sure you see with your own eye?, 
and hear with your own ears. Entertain no lurchers, cherish no 
informers for gain or revenge, use no tricks, fly to no devices to 
support or cover injustice ; but let your hearts be upright before 
the Lord, trusting in him above the contrivances of men, and none 
shall be able to hurt or supplant. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 1672—1719. 

Joseph Addisox, one of the brightest names in English literature, was born 
at Milston, in Wiltshire, of which place his father was rector, on the 1st of 
May, 1672. After the usual course of study, he entered the University of 
Oxford, at the age of fifteen. Here he devoted himself with great assiduity 
to ciassica studies, the fruits of which were soon seen in a small volume of 
Latin poems, which attracted considerable attention. In his twenty-second 
yeai he addressed some verses to Mr. Dryden, which procured him the notice 



1714-1727.] addison. 375 

and approbation of that poet, for whom he afterwards wrote a prefatory 
" Essay on the Georgics," which Dryden prefixed to his translation in 1697. 
Before this, however, he had become acquainted with that distinguished patron 
of letters, Lord Keeper Somers, who, in 1699, procured for him a pension of 
.£300 a year, to enable him to travel in Italy In this classic land he com- 
posed his Epistle to Lord Halifax, one of his best poetical productions, hip 
" Dialogue on Medals," and the greater part of his " Cato." Soon after his 
return he published his travels in Italy, dedicated to his patron, Lord Somers 
illustrative chiefly of the classical associations of that renowned land. 

The change of the administration in 1702 deprived Addison of his pen 
sion; and he had lived more than two years in retirement when he was 
requested by one of the ministry to write a poem in praise of the victory of 
Blenheim, gained by the Duke of Marlborough, in August, 1704. He did so, 
and before the year closed, appeared the " Campaign," i which procured for 
him the office of under-secretary of state. In 1709 he went to Ireland as 
secretary to the lord-lieutenant, and while here, on the 12th of April (O. S.) 
of that year, appeared the first number of " The Tatler." When the sixth 
number of this appeared, Addison knew that the author was his friend Sir 
Richard Steele, from a critical remark which he had privately made to him 
alone, 2 and he therefore immediately took a very active part in the conduct of 
this periodical. 3 

The "Tatler" had scarcely terminated, when Addison formed the plan of 
that work on which his fame chiefly rests — the " Spectator." 4 The essays in 
it most valuable for humor, invention, and precept, are the product of his pen, 
and it soon became the most popular work England had produced. So great 
was its reputation, that sometimes twenty thousand copies of a number were 
sold in one day. It travelled through every part of the kingdom, and was 

1 Warton has not too severely called this poem "a Gazette in Khyme." How infinitely superior for 
Its fine moral tone, as well as for its pathos and poetry, is that touching ballad of Southey's, on the 
same subject; the last verse of which reads thus :— 

And everybody praised the Duke, 

Who this great flght did win : 
"But what good came of it at last 1" 

auotb little Peterkin. 
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 

2 The critical remark which Addison made to Steele was upon the hero of the JEneid, which Steele 
gives as follows : — 

" Virgil's common epithet to JEneas is Phis or Pater. I have therefore considered what passage 
there is in any of his hero's actions where either of these appellations would have been most im- 
proper ;— and this, I think, is his meeting with Dido in the cave, where Phis jEneas would have been 
absurd, and Pater .Eneas a burlesque: the poet therefore wisely dropped them both for Dux Trojanus ; 
which he has repeated twice in Juno's speech and his own narration : for he very well knew a loose 
action might be consistent enough with the usual manners of a soldier, though it became neitner the 
chastity of a pious man, nor the gravity of the father of a people." 

3 The Tatler may be considered as the father of English periodical literature. It was published 
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, from the 12th of April, 1709, to the 2d of January, 1711. Of 
the 271 papers, Steele wrote 188; Addison, 42; Steele and Addison jointly, 36; Swift and Addison, I* 
Hughes, 2; Swift, 1; Fuller, 1. 

4 The Spectator was commenced on the 1st of March, 1711, and continued every day, Sundays ex- 
cepted, till the Cth of December, 1712. The plan is founded upon the fiction of a club that assembles 
every Tuesday and Thursday, to carry on the publication. Of the 635 numbers, Addison wrote 274, 
Steele, 240; Budgell, 37; Hughes, 11; Grove, 4; Pope, Parnell, Pearce, Martyn, Byrom, 2 each; Swift, 
Brown. Friuicham, Dunlop, Hardwicke, Fleetwood, leach; and 53 were anonymous. Addison's 
papers are designated by the letters of the word Ci.io. 



376 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

alike the recreation of the learned, the busy, and the klle. The "Spectator" 
was followed by the "Guardian," 1 which was commenced by Steele, but to 
which Addison largely contributed. In the mean time he published his tra 
gedy of « Cato," which met with unbounded popularity, being represented on 
ihe stage thirty-five nights successively; not, however, so much from its merits 
as a tragedy, as from the noble sentiments of liberty which it breathes through- 
out, and which, in those times of great political excitement, each party, tha 
Whig and the Tory, wished to appropriate to itself. 2 

In 1716, Addison married the Countess of Warwick, who was, in every 
respect, vastly his inferior, except in the adventitious circumstance of family 
rank, which in England is of " wondrous potency." " In point of intellect," 
says Dr. Drake, "there could be no competition; and despicable must have 
been the ignorance of that woman who could for a moment suppose that the 
mere casualty of splendid birth entitled her to treat with contempt, and to 
arrogate a superiority over a man of exquisite genius and unsullied virtue." 
That she was the means of imbittering his life, and shortening his days, there 
is no doubt. He had long been subject to an asthmatic affection, and it soon 
became evident that the hour of his dissolution could not be far distant, 
" The death-bed of Addison was the triumph of religion and virtue. Repos- 
ing on the merits of his Redeemer, and conscious of a life well spent in the 
service of his fellow-creatures, he waited with tranquillity and resignation the 
moment of departure. The dying accents of the virtuous man have fre- 
quently, when other means have failed, produced the happiest effect ; and 
Addison, anxious that a scene so awful might make its due impression, de- 
manded the attendance of his son-in-law, Lord Warwick. This young noble- 
man was amiable, but dissipated; and Addison had often, though in vain, 
endeavored to correct his principles, and to curb the impetuosity of his pas- 
sions. He came, says Dr. Young, who first related the affecting circumstance; 
but life was now glimmering in the socket, and the dying friend was silent. 
After a decent and proper pause, the youth said, 'Dear sir, you sent for me; 
I believe, I hope you have some commands; I shall hold them most sacred.' 
May distant ages not only hear but feel the reply. Forcibly grasping the 
youth's hand, he softly said, 'See in what peace a Christian- can die;' 3 
and soon after expired, on the 17th of June, 1719." 4 

Of the merits of Addison as a writer, there never has been but one opinion 
among the critics. Mr. Melmoth says of him, " In a word, one may justly 

1 The first number of the Guardian was published on the 12th of March, and the last on the 1st of 
October, 1713. Of the 176 numbers, Steele wrote 82 ; Addison, 53; Berkeley, 14; Pope, 8; Tickell, 7; 
Budgell, Hughes, and Parnell, 2 each; Gay, Young, Philips, Wotton, Birch, Bartlett, 1 each. 

2 " The tragedy of Cato," says Dr. Warton, " is a glaring instance of the force of party. So sen- 
tentious and declamatory a drama would never have met with such rapid success, if every line and 
sentiment had not been particularly tortured and applied to recent events. It is a fine dialogue on 
liberty and the love of one's country, but considered as a dramatic performance it wants action and 
pathos, the two hinges on which a just tragedy ought to turn, and without which it cannot subsist." 
Dr. Johnson has censured it as a " dialogue too declamatory, of unaffecting elegance, and chill phi- 
losophy," — the very terms most applicable to his own tragedy "Irene." 

"O wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us.' — Burns. 
<5 Tickell tol'i Dr v ung, that in the following couplet of his elegy on the death of Addison, he 
alluded to this interview with the Earl of Warwick :— 

" He taught us how to live, and oh, too high 
The price of knowledge, taught us how to die." 
4 Bead— an admirable sketch of Addison's life in Drake's Essays, vol. i. Also an article in the 
Edinuurgli Review, July 1843, and in Macaulay's Miscellanies, vol. v. p. 82 : also, Life by Lucy Aikln. 



1714-1727.] adeison. 377 

apply to him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of Aristophanes, 
that the Graces, having searched all the world for a temple wherein they 
might for ever dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison." ' 

Dr. Young is no less emphatic in his praise. " Addison wrote little in verse, 
much in sweet, elegant, Virgilian prose ; so let me call it, since Longinus calls 
Herodotus most Homeric ; and Thucydides is said to have formed his style on 
Pindar. Addison's compositions are built with the finest materials, in the 
taste of the ancients. I never read him, but I am struck with such a dis- 
heartening idea of perfection, that I drop my pen. And, indeed, far superior 
writers should forget his compositions, if they would be greatly pleased with 
their own." 2 And Dr. Johnson remarks: "Whoever wishes to attain an Eng- 
lish style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give 
his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." 3 

As a writer, Addison may be considered as excelling in four departments, 
namely, in Criticism, in Humor, in Fable and Allegory, and in Instructive Mo- 
rality. As a critic, he was the first to call the attention of the public to the 
rich mine of wealth to be found in Milton. 4 His Essays on the Pleasures of 
the Imagination 6 are well known as being the foundation of Akenside's fine 
poem on the same subject. Numerous single papers, also, on different sub- 
jects of criticism, are scattered throughout the Spectator; such as, those on the 
English Language, 6 on Ancient and Modern Literature, on Pope's Essay on 
Criticism, 7 on old English Ballads, 8 &c. The concluding part of a paper on Ir- 
regular Genius, 9 we must here insert, as being an encomium on Shakspeare, 
"which, for its singularly happy imagery, may set competition at defiance." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Our inimitable Shakspeare is a stumbling-block to the whole 
tribe of rigid critics. Who would not rather read one of his plays, 
where there is not a single rule of the stage observed, than any 
production of a modern critic, where there is not one of them vio- 
lated ! Shakspeare was indeed born with all the seeds of poetry, 
and may be compared to the stone in Pyrrhus's ring, which, as 
Pliny tells us, had the figure of Apollo and the nine Muses in the 
veins of it, produced by the spontaneous hand of nature, without 
any help from art. 

In refined and delicate humor, Addison has no superior, if he has any 
equal, in English prose literature. 10 The following may be taken as specimens : 

1 Fitzosborne'3 Letters, Letter XXIX. 2 Observations on Original Composition. 

8 This excellence was not attained without great labor. " I have been informed that Addison was 
so extremely nice in polishing his prose compositions, that, when almost the whole impression of a 
Spectator was worked off, he would stop the press to insert a new preposition or conjunction." War- 
ton's "Pope," i. 152. Read— Johnson's Life of Addison, in his "Lives of the Poets ;" also, Dr. Blair's 
criticisms, in the 19th Lecture; and Knox's Essays, Nos. 28 and 106. 

4 Spectator, Nos. 262, 267, 273, and so on for sixteen more numbers, every Saturday. See page 240, 
for Sir Egerton Brydges's criticisms on these numbers. 

6 Spectators, Nos. 411—421. 6 No. 135. 7 No. 253. 8 No. 85. 9 No. 592. 

10 "His humor," says Dr. Johnson, "is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to do- 
mestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of nature, nor raises merri- 
ment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amuse by 
aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that, he can hardly be said to invent; yet his exhi- 
bitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of the 
imagination."— Lives of the Poets. 

32* 



378 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

BICKERSTAFF LEARNING FENCING. 

I have upon my chamber-walls drawn at full length the figures 
of all sorts of men, from eight feet to three feet two inches. 
Within this height, I take it that all the fighting men of Great 
Britain are comprehended. But, as I push, I make allowances 
for my being of a lank and spare body, and have chalked out in 
every figure my own dimensions ; for I scorn to rob any man of 
his life by taking advantage of his breadth : therefore, I press 
purely in a line down from his nose, and take no more of him to 
assault than he has of me : for, to speak impartially, if a lean 
fellow wounds a fat one in any part of the right or left, whether 
it be in carte or in tierce, beyond the dimensions of the said lean 
fellow's own breadth, I take it to be murder, and such a murder 
as is below a gentleman to commit. As I am spare, I am also 
very tall, and behave myself with relation to that advantage with 
the same punctilio ; and I am ready to stoop or stand, according 
to the stature of my adversary. I must confess, I have had great 
success this morning, and have hit every figure round the room 
in a mortal part without receiving the least hurt, except a little 
scratch by falling on my face, in pushing at one, at the lower end 
of my chamber ; but I recovered so quick, and jumped so nimbly 
into my guard, that, if he had been alive, he could not have hurt 
me. It is confessed I have written against duels with some 
warmth ; but in all my discourses I have not ever said that I 
knew how a gentleman could avoid a duel if he were provoked 
to it ; and since that custom is now become a law, I know nothing 
but the legislative power, with new animadversions upon it, can 
put us in a capacity of denying challenges, though we were after- 
wards hanged for it. But no more of this at present. As things 
stand, I shall put up no more affronts ; and I shall be so far from tak- 
ing ill words, that I will not take ill looks. I, therefore, warn all hot 
young fellows not to look hereafter more terrible than their neigh- 
bors : for, if they stare at me with their hats cocked higher than 
other people, I will not bear it. Nay, I give warning to all people 
in general to look kindly at me ; for I will bear no frowns, even 
from ladies ; and if any woman pretends to look scornfully at me, 
I shall demand satisfaction of the next of kin of the masculine 
gender. Tatur, no. 93. 

ON THE USE OF THE FAN. 

1 do not know whether to call the following letter a satire upon 
coquettes, or a representation of their several fantastical accom- 
plishments, or what other title to give it; but, as it is, T shall com- 
municate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain its own in- 
tentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, without either 
preface or postscript : 



1714-1727.] addison. 379 

Mr. Spectator : 

Women are armed with fans as men with swords, and some- 
times do more execution with them. To the end, therefore, that 
ladies may be entire mistresses of the weapon which they bear, I 
have erected an academy for the training up of young women in 
the exercise of the fan, according to the most fashionable airs and 
motions that are now practised at court. The ladies who carry 
fans under me are drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where 
they are instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised by the 
following words of command : — Handle your fans, Unfurl your 
fans, Discharge your fans, Ground your fans, Recover your fans, 
Flutter your fans. By the right observation of these few plain 
words of command, a woman of a tolerable genius, who will apply 
herself diligently to her exercise for the space of but one half- 
year, shall be able to give her fan all the graces that can possibly 
enter into that little modish machine. 

But to the end that my readers may form to themselves a 
right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them in 
all its parts. When my female regiment is drawn up in array, 
with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving the 
word to Handle their fans, each of them shakes her i m at me 
with a smile, then gives her right-hand woman a tap upon the 
shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of hei fan, then 
lets her arms fall in easy motion, and stands in readiness to receive 
the next word of command. All this is done with a close fan, and 
is generally learned in the first week. 

The next motion is that of unfurling the fan, in which are com- 
prehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual and 
deliberate openings, with many voluntary fallings asunder in the 
fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's practice. This 
part of the exercise pleases the spectators more than any other, as 
it discovers, on a sudden, an infinite number of cupids, garlands, 
altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like agreeable figures, that 
display themselves to view, whilst every one in the regiment holds 
a picture in her hand. 

Upon my giving the word to Discharge their fans, they give 
one general crack that may be heard at a considerable distance 
when the wind sits fair. This is one of the most difficult parts 
of the exercise, but I have several ladies with me, who at then 
first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to be heard at the 
farther end of the room, who can now discharge a fan in such a 
manner, that it shall make a report like a pocket-pistol. I have 
likewise taken care (in order to hinder young women from letting 
off their fans in wrong places, or on unsuitable occasions) to show 
upon what subject the crack of a fan may come in proper'y : 1 
have likewise invented a fan, with which a girl of sixteen, by the 



380 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

help of a little wind, whxch is enclosed about one of the largest 
sticks, can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with an ordi- 
nary fan. 

When the fans are thus discharged, the word of command, in 
course, is to Ground their fans. This teaches a lady to quit her 
fan gracefully when she throws it aside in order to take up a pack 
of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a falling pin, or apply her- 
self to any other matter of importance. This part of the exercise, 
as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long table, 
(which stands by for that purpose,) may be learned in two days' 
time as well as in a twelvemonth. 

When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let 
them walk about the room for some time ; when, on a sudden, (like 
ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit,) they all of 
them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and place 
themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out, Recover 
your fans. This part of the exercise is not difficult, provided a 
woman applies her thoughts to it. 

The fluttering of the fan is the last, and indeed the master-piece 
of the whole exercise ; but if a lady does not mis-spend her time, 
she may make herself mistress of it in three months. I generally 
lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of the summer for the 
teaching this part of the exercise ; for as soon as ever I pronounce, 
Flutter your fans, the place is filled with so many zephyrs and 
gentle breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the year, 
though they might be dangerous to ladies of a tender constitution 
in any other. 

There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in the 
flutter of a fan. There is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, the 
timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry flutter, and the 
amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion in 
the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan ; 
insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I know 
very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have seen a 
fan so very angry, that it would have been dangerous for the ab- 
sent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it ; 
and at other times so very languishing, that I have been glad for 
the lady's sake the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need 
not add, that a fan is either a prude or coquette, according to the 
nature of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must 
acquaint you that I have from my own observations compiled a 
little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled, The Passions of 
the Fan ; which I will communicate to you if you think it may be 
of use to the public. I shall have a general review on Thursday 
next ; to which you shall be very welcome if you will honor it 
with your presence. I am, &c. 



1714-1727.] addison. 381 

P. S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting a fan. 
N. B. I have several little plain fans made for this use, to avoid 

e XpenSC Spectator, No. 102. 

THE LOVER'S LEAP. 

I shall in this paper discharge myself of the promise I have 
made to the public, by obliging them with a translation of the little 
Greek manuscript, which is said to have been a piece of those 
records that were preserved in the temple of Apollo, upon the pro- 
montory of Leucate. It is a short history of the Lover's Leap, 
and is inscribed, An account of persons, male and female, who 
offered up their vows in the temple of the Pythian Apollo in the 
forty-sixth Olympiad, and leaped from the promontory of Leucate 
into the Ionian Sea, in order to cure themselves of the passion of 
love. 

This account is very dry in many parts, as only mentioning the 
name of the lover who leaped, the person he leaped for, and re- 
lating, in short, that he was either cured, or killed, or maimed by 
the fall. It, indeed, gives the names of so many who died by it, 
that it would have looked like a bill of mortality, had I translated 
it at full length ; I have, therefore, made an abridgment of it, and 
only extracted such particular passages as have something extra- 
ordinary, either in the case or in the cure, or in the fate of the 
person who is mentioned in it. After this short preface, take the 
account as follows : 

Battus, the son of Menalcas the Sicilian, leaped for Bombyca 
the musician : got rid of his passion with the loss of his right leg 
and arm, which were broken in the fall. 

Melissa, in love with Daphnis, very much bruised, but escaped 
with life. 

Cynisca, the wife of iEschines, being in love with Lycus ; and 
iEschines her husband being in love with Eurilla, (which had 
made this married couple very uneasy to one another for several 
years ;) both the husband and the wife took the leap by consent ; 
they both of them escaped, and have lived very happily together 
ever since. 

Larissa, a virgin of Thessaly, deserted by Plexippus, after a 
courtship of three years ; she stood upon the brow of the promon- 
tory for some time, and after having thrown down a ring, a brace- 
let, and a little picture, with other presents which she had received 
from Plexippus, she threw herself into the sea, and was taken up 
alive. 

N. B. Larissa, before she leaped, made an offering of a silver 
Cupid in the temple of Apollo. 

Aridseus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love with Praxinoe. 
the wife of Thespis ; escaped without damage, saving only 



382 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

that two of his fore-teeth were struck out and his nose a little 
flatted. 

Cleora, a widow of Ephesus, being inconsolable for the death of 
her husband, was resolved to take this leap in order to get rid of 
her passion for his memory ; but being arrived at the promontory, 
she there met with Dimmachus the Milesian, and after a short con- 
versation with him, laid aside the thoughts of her leap, and married 
him in the temple of Apollo. 

N. B. Her widow's weeds are still seen hanging up in the 
western corner of the temple. 

Olphis, the fisherman, having received a box on the ear from 
Thestylis the day before, and being determined to have no more 
to do with her, leaped, and escaped with life. 

Atalanta, an old maid, whose cruelty had several years before 
driven two or three despairing lovers to this leap, being now in 
the fifty-fifth year of her age, and in love with an officer of Sparta, 
broke her neck in the fall. 

Tettyx, the dancing-master, in love with Olympia, an Athenian 
matron, threw himself from the rock with great agility, but was 
crippled in the fall. 

Diagoras, the usurer, in love with his cook-maid ; he peeped 
several times over the precipice, but his heart misgiving him, he 
went back, and married her that evening. 

Eunica, a maid of Paphos, aged nineteen, in love with Eury- 
bates. Hurt in the fall, but recovered. 

N. B. This was the second time of her leaping. 

Hesperus, a young man of Tarentum, in love with his master's 
daughter. Drowned, the boats not coming in soon enough to his 
relief. 

Sappho the Lesbian, in love with Phaon, arrived at the temple 
of Apollo habited like a bride, in garments as white as snow. She 
wore a garland of myrtle on her head, and carried in her hand the 
little musical instrument of her own invention. After having sung 
n hymn to Apollo, she hung up her garland on one side of his 
altar, and her harp on the other. She then tucked up her vest- 
ments like a Spartan virgin, and amidst thousands of spectators, 
who were anxious for her safety, and offered up vows for her de- 
liverance, marched directly forwards to the utmost' summit of the 
promontory, where, after having repeated a stanza of her own 
verses, which we could not hear, she threw herself off the rock 
with such an intrepidity as was never before observed in any who 
had attempted that dangerous leap. Many who were present re- 
lated, that they saw her fall into the sea, from whence she never 
rose again ; though there were others who affirmed that she never 
came to the bottom of her leap, but that she was changed into a 
swan as she fell, and that they saw her hovering in the air under 



1714-1727.] addison. 383 

that shape. But whether or no the whiteness and fluttering of hei 
garments might not deceive those who looked upon her, or whether 
she might not really be metamorphosed into that musical and me- 
lancholy bird, is still a doubt among the Lesbians. 

Alcaeus, the famous lyric poet, who had for some time been pas- 
sionately in love with Sappho, arrived at the promontory of Leu- 
cate that very evening, in order to take the leap upon her account, 
but hearing that Sappho had been there before him, and that hei 
body could be nowhere found, he very generously lamented her 
fall, and is said to have written his hundred and twenty-fifth ode 
upon that occasion. 

Leaped in this Olympiad, Males 124 Females 126 Total 250 

Cured, " 



u 
[SSEC1 


" 51 « 
ION OF A BEAU'S HEAD. 


69 " 120 

Spectator, No. 233. 



A very wild, extravagant dream employed my fancy all the 
last night. I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a 
beau's head and a coquette's heart, which were both of them laid. 
on a table before us. An imaginary operator opened the first with 
a great deal of nicety, which, upon a cursory and superficial view, 
appearecflike the head of another man ; but upon applying oui 
glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what 
we looked upon as brains were not such in reality, but a heap of 
strange materials wound up in that shape and texture, and packed 
together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull. 
For, as Homer tells us, that the blood of the gods is not real blood, 
but only something like it ; so we found that the brain of a beau 
is not a real brain, but only something like it. 

The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers 
suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence 
and orange-flower water, and was encompassed with a kind of 
horny substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mirrors, which 
were imperceptible to the naked eye, insomuch that the soul, if 
there had been any here, must have been always taken up in 
contemplating her own beauties. 

We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinciput, 1 that was 
filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery, wrought together in a 
most curious piece of net-work, the parts of which were likewise 
imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of these antrums or 
cavities was stuffed with invisible billet-doux, love-letters, pricked 
dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we 
found a kind of powder, which set the whole company a sneez- 
ing, and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The 
several other cells were stored with commodities of the same kind, 
of which it would be tedious to give the reader an exact inventory. 

X The fore part of the head. 



384 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

There was a large cavity on each side of the head, which I 
must not omit. That on the right side was rilled with fictions, 
flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, promises, and protestations : that 
on the left, with oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct 
from each of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue, 
where both joined together, and passed forward in one common 
duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads or canals 
running from the ear into the brain, and took particular care t* 
trace them out through their several passages. One of them ex- 
tended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instruments. 
Others ended in several bladders which were filled either with 
wind or froth. But the large canal entered into a great cavity of 
the skull, from whence there went another canal into the tongue. 
This great cavity was filled with a kind of spongy substance, which 
the French anatomists call gallimatias, and the English nonsense. 

The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and thick, and, 
what very much surprised us, had not in them any single blood- 
vessel that we were able to discover, either with or without our 
glasses ; from whence we concluded that the party, when alive, 
must have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing. 

The os cribriforme 1 was exceedingly stuffed, and in some 
places damaged with snuff. We could not but take notice in par- 
ticular of that small muscle which is not often discovered in dis- 
section, and draws the nose upwards, when it expresses the con- 
tempt which the owner of it has, upon seeing any thing he does 
not like, or hearing any thing he does not understand. I need not 
tell my learned reader this is that muscle which performs the mo- 
tion so often mentioned by the Latin poets, when they talk of a 
man's cocking his nose, or playing the rhinoceros, 

We did not find any thing very remarkable in the eye, saving 
only, that the musculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into 
English, the ogling muscles, were very much worn and decayed 
with use ; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle 
which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been 
used at all. 

We were informed, that the person to whom this head belonged, 
had passed for a man above five and thirty years ; during which 
time he eat and drank like other people, dressed well, talked loud, 
laughed frequently, and on particular occasions had acquitted him- 
self tolerably at a ball or an assembly ; to which one of the com- 
pany added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for a wit. He 
was cut off in the flower of his age by the blow of a paring 
shovel, having been surprised by an eminent citizen, as he was I 
tendering some civilities to his wife. 

l That is, the " bone resembling a sieve," through which the fibres of the olfactory nerves pass to 
the nose 



1714-1727.] addison. 385 

Our operator applied himself in the next place to the coquette's 
heart, which he likewise laid open with great dexterity. There 
occurred to us many particularities in this dissection ; but being 
unwilling to burden my reader's memory too much, I shall re- 
serve this subject for the speculation of another day. 

Spectator, No. 275. 
DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE'S HEART. 

Raving already given an account of the dissection of a beau 'a 
head, with the several discoveries made on that occasion ; I shall 
here, according to my promise, enter upon the dissection of a co- 
quette's heart, and communicate to the public such particulars as 
we observed in that curious piece of anatomy. 

Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary dissection, 
told us, that there was nothing in his art more difficult than to lay 
open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the many labyrinths and 
recesses which are to be found in it, and which do not appear in 
the heart of any other animal. 

He desired us first of ail to observe the pericardium, or outward 
case of the heart, which we did very attentively ; and by the help 
of our glasses discerned in it millions of little scars, which seemed 
to have been occasioned by the points of innumerable darts and 
arrows, that from time to time had glanced upon the outward coat ; 
though we could not discover the smallest orifice, by which any 
of them had entered and pierced the inward substance. 

Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the company assured 
us he himself had made with the thin, reddish liquor contained in 
the pericardium, which he found in great quantity about the heart 
of a coquette whom he had formerly dissected. He affirmed to 
us that he had actually enclosed it in a small tube made after the 
manner of a weather-glass ; but that instead of acquainting him 
with the variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qualities 
of those persons who entered the room where it stood. He af- 
firmed, also, that it rose at the approach of a plume of feathers, an 
embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves ; and that it fell as 
soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an un- 
fashionable coat came into his house. Nay, he proceeded so far 
as to assure us, that upon his laughing aloud when he stood by it, 
the liquor mounted very sensibly, and immediately sunk again 
upon his looking serious. In short, he told us, that he knew very 
well, by this invention, whenever he had a man of sense or a cox- 
comb in his room. 

Having cleared away the pericardium or the case, and liquor 
above mentioned, we came to the heart itself. The outward sur ■ 
face of it was extremely slippery, and the mucro, or point, so very 
2B 33 



386 ADDISON. [GEOKGE I. 

cold withaJ, that upon endeavoring to take hold of it, it glided 
through the fingers like a smooth piece of ice. 

The fibres were turned and twisted in a more intricate and per- 
plexed manner than they are usually found in other hearts; inso- 
much that the whole heart was wound up together in a Gordian 
knot, and must have had very irregular and unequal motions, 
while it was employed in its vital function. 

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to be extremely 
light, and consequently very hollow, which I did not wonder at, 
when, upon looking into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of cells 
and cavities running one within another, as our historians describe 
the apartments of Rosamond's .bower. Several of these little hol- 
lows were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifles, which I shall 
forbear giving any particular account of, and shall therefore only 
take notice of what lay first and uppermost, which upon our un- 
folding it, and applying our microscopes to it, appeared to be a 
flame-colored hood. 

We are informed that the lady of this heart, when living, re- 
ceived the addresses of several who made love to her, and did not 
only give each of them encouragement, but made every one she 
conversed with believe that she regarded him with an eye of 
kindness ; for which reason we expected to have seen the impres- 
sions of multitudes of faces among the several plaits and foldings 
of the heart : but to our great surprise not a single print of this 
nature discovered itself until we came into the very core and 
centre of it. We there observed a little figure, which, upon ap- 
plying our glasses to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic man- 
ner. The more I looked upon it, the more I thought I had seen 
the face before, but could not possibly recollect either the place or 
time ; when at length, one of the company, who had examined 
this figure more nicely than the rest, showed us plainly, by the 
make of its face, and the several turns of its features, that the lit- 
tle idol which was thus lodged in the very middle of the heart was 
the deceased beau, whose head I gave some account of in my last 
Tuesday's paper. 

As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved to make 
an experiment of the heart, not being able to determine among 
ourselves the nature of its substance, which differed in so many 
particulars from that of the heart in other females. Accordingly 
we laid it in a pan of burning coals, when we observed in it a 
certain salamandrine quality, that made it capable of living in th6 
midst of fire and flame, without being consumed, or so much as 
singed. 

As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and standing 
round the heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious sigh, or rathei 



1714-1727.] addison. 387 

crack, and dispersed all at once in smoke and vapor. This ima- 
ginary noise, which methought was louder than the burst of a 
cannon, produced such a violent shake in my brain, that it dissi- 
pated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an instant broad awake. 

Spectator, No. 281. 

But of all the papers of Addison, none, for pure, graceful, delicate, genuine 
humor, are equal to the series which portray the character of Sir Roger de 
Coverley. Of that beautiful specimen of the old-fashioned English gentleman, 
of high honor, real benevolence, great goodness of heart, mixed up with ec- 
centricities as amusing as they are harmless, Addison truly said « we are born 
for each other." It is true that Steele appears to have first conceived the 
character, in the second number of the Spectator, and gave some account of 
him in a few other numbers ; but Addison very soon took it out of his friend's 
hands, who was hardly able to carry on the portraiture with that refinement 
which belonged to Addison's conception of the character. It is said that Ad- 
dison killed Sir Roger, in the fear that some other hand would spoil him. 

Although no justice can be done to this rich series of papers by selections, 
yet we cannot refrain from giving two. 1 

VISIT TO SIR ROGER IN THE COUNTRY. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverlej'- to pass away a month with him in the country, I last 
week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some 
time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my 
ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted 
with my humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at 
his own table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit still and say no- 
thing without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of 
the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As 
I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them stealing a 
sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them 
not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists 
of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight is the best master in 
the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he is beloved 
by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him : by this 
means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with then 
master. You would take his valet-de-chambre for his brother, his 
butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I 
have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy-coun- 
sellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house 
dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great cart 

1 The following are the papers which relate to this charming character : No. 2, is his Character, by 
Steele :— No. 106, Visit to his Country Seat, by Addison :— No. 107, his Conduct to his Servants, by 
Bteele:— No. 109, his Ancestors, by Steele:— No. 112, his Behavior at Church, by Addison :— No. 11S : 
his Disappointment in Love, by Steele:— No. 116, a Hunting Scene with Sir Roger, by Budgell:-No. 
118, Sir Roger's Reflections on the Widow, by Steele :— and Nos. 122, 130, 269, 271, 329, 335, 383, and 
517 containing an account of his death, all by Addison. 



388 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has 
been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy 
that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon 
my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not 
refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; every one of 
them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed dis- 
couraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good 
old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the 
family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several 
kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good 
nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant 
upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so 
much as the person whom he diverts himself with : on the con- 
trary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy 
for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the locks of all his 
servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his 
butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his 
fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they 
have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend. 

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the 
woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir 
.Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above 
thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some 
learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation : he 
heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the 
old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a rela- 
tion than a dependent. 

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist; 
and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged 
by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his, and 
distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, 
as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conver- 
sation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree 
of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary 
colors. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how 
I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned ? and with- 
out staying for my answer told me, that he was afraid of being 
insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason 
he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him 
out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a 
good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a 
man that understood a little of backgammon. " My friend," says 
Sir Roger, •' found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endow- 



1714-1727.] addison. 389 

ments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he 
does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish ; 
and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good an- 
nuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher 
in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been 
with me thirty years ; and though he does not know I have taken 
notice of it, has never in all that time asked any thing of me for 
himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in be- 
half of one or other of my tenants his parishioners. There has not 
been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them ; if 
any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; 
if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never 
happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his 
first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good ser- 
mons which have been printed in English, and only begged of 
him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the 
pulpit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series, that 
they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system 
of practical divinity." 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were 
talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight's asking him who 
preached to-morrow, (for it was Saturday night,) told us, the 
Bishop of St. Asaph 1 in the morning, and Dr. South in the after- 
noon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, 
where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, 
Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living 
authors who have published discourses of practical divinity. I no 
sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much ap- 
proved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good 
aspect and a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the graceful- 
ness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he 
pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satis- 
faction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the compo- 
sition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. 

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would fol- 
low this example ; and instead of wasting their spirits in laborious 
compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elo- 
cution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what 
has been penned by great masters. This would not only be more 
easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people. 3 

Spectator, No. 106. 

1 Dr. William Fleetwood. 

2 What delicate and keen satire this, upon that class of clergymen, of whom Cowper, in a subse- 
quent age, more severely wrote : 

He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into modern use; transforms old print 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.--7'a«A, ii. 363 
33* 



390 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

SIR ROGER AT CHURCH. 

I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and 
think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human insti- 
tution, it would be the best method that could have been thought 
of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the 
country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and 
barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, 
in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, 
and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon 
different subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join 
together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away 
the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds 
the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appear- 
ing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities 
as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A 
country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, 
as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole parish-politics be- 
ing generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before 
the bell rings. 

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified 
the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. 
He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the 
communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that 
at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; 
and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, 
he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book : 
and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who 
goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly 
in the tunes of the Psalms ; upon which they now very much 
value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches 
that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps 
them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it be- 
sides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short 
nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks 
about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them 
himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old 
knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. Some- 
times, he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing Psalms, 
half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; 
sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his* devotion, he 
pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer ; and 
sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to 
count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. 
I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in 
the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind 



1714-1727.] addison. 391 

what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John 
Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at 
that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority 
of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accom- 
panies him in all the circumstances of life, has a very good effect 
upon the parish, who are not polite eu.ough to see any thing ridi- 
culous in his behaviour ; besides that, the general good sense and 
worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little 
singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good 
qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till 
Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down 
from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, 
that stand bowing to him on each side : and every now and then 
inquires how such a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father does, 
whom he does not see at church; which is understood as a secret 
reprimand to the person that is absent. 

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day, 
when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, 
he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encou- 
ragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon 
to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year 
to the clerk's place; and that he may encourage the young fel- 
lows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has pro- 
mised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, 
to bestow it according to merit. spectator, so. 112. 

The moral tendency of Addison's writings can hardly be over-estimated. 
"On education and the domestic virtues," says Dr. Drake, "on the duties in- 
cumbent on father, husband, wife, and child, his precepts are just and cogent, 
and delivered in that sweet, insinuating style and manner which have ren- 
dered him beyond comparison the most useful moralist this country ever pro- 
duced." Who can set limits to the influence which such a mind has exerted i 
And what a lesson should it read to the conductors of our periodic press, from 
the stately quarterly to the daily newspaper! What untold gain would it be 
to the world if they would think less of party, and more of truth : if they 
would ever be found the firm advocates of every thing that tends to elevate 
and bless man, and the steadfast, out-spoken opponents of all that tends to 
degrade, debase, and brutalize him. 

OMNIPRESENCE AND OMNISCIENCE OF THE DEITY. 1 

I was yesterday about sunset walking in the open fields, usitil 
the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with 
all the richness and variety of colors which appeared in the west- 
ern parts of heaven : in proportion as they faded away and went 

1 "I consider the paper on Omnipresence and Omniscience as one of the most perfect, imprer ,/t^ 
and instructive pieces of composition that ever flowed from the pen of an uninspir%J morUist. '— 



392 ADDISON. [GEORGE I. 

out, several stars and planets appeared one after another, until the 
whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was 
exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, 
and by the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The 
galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the 
scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which 
Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of 
nature, which was more finely shaded and disposed among softer 
lights than that which the sun had before discovered to us. 

As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and 
taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me 
which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious 
and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that re- 
flection, " When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, 
the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained : what is man, 
that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man, that thou regard- 
est him !" In the same manner when I considered that infinite 
host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns which 
were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets 
or worlds which were moving round their respective suns ; when 
I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and 
worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still 
enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are 
planted at so great a distance that they may appear to the inhabit- 
ants of the former as the stars do to us ; in short, while I pursued 
this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure 
which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. 

If we consider God in his omnipresence, his being passes through, 
actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, 
and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has 
made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which 
he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the sub- 
stance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as inti- 
mately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an 
imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into 
another, or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or 
from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad 
to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old 
philosopher, he is a Being whose centre is everywhere, and his 
circumference nowhere. 

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. 
His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his 
omnipresence ; he cannot but be conscious of every motion that 
arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially per- 
vades, and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual 
world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. Seve- 



1714-1727.] addison. 393 

ral moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, 
which he has built with his own hands, and which is filled with 
his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the recepta- 
cle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty ; but the noblest and 
most exalted way of considering this infinite space is that of Sir 
Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes 
and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they 
apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects 
that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation 
turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot 
but perceive and know every thing in which he resides, infinite 
space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ 
to omniscience. 

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance ot 
thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it 
for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space 
with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace 
of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the 
Godhead. Whilst we are in the body, he is not less present with 
us because he is concealed from us. " O that I knew where 1 
might find him !" says Job. " Behold I go forward, but he is not 
there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hand, 
where he does work, but I cannot behold him ; he hideth himself 
on the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as 
well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, 
notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. 

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and om- 
niscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but 
regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures 
who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their 
thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt 
to trouble them on this occasion ; for, as it is impossible he should 
overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he 
regards with an eye of mercy those who endeavor to recommend 
themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart 
think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. 

Spectator, No. 5b*. 
REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy 
dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inor- 
dinate desire goes out ; when I meet with the grief of parents 
upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion ; when I see 
the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of griev- 
ing for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings 
lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits 



394 ADDISON. [geokge r. 

placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with 
their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment 
on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When 
I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, 
and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great day when 
we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance 

together. Spectator, No. 26. 

As a poet, Addison does not take the highest rank, and yet he has written 
much that would be more valued had it not been thrown into the shade 
by the comparative brilliancy of his prose. One of his best pieces is his poet- 
ical Letter to Lord Halifax, written from Italy in 1701. Of this Dr. Drake 1 
thus speaks : " Had he written nothing else, this Epistle ought to have ac- 
quired for him the reputation of a good poet. Its versification is remarkably 
sweet and polished, its vein of description usually rich and clear, and its sen- 
timents often pathetic, and sometimes even sublime. We see Addison, with 
the ardent enthusiasm of a mind fresh from the study of the classics, exploring 
with unwearied fondness and assiduity the neglected relics of antiquity, and 
tracing every stream and mountain recorded in the songs of the Bard. His 
praises of liberty break forth with uncommon warmth and beauty ; with that 
energy of phrase and thought which only genuine emotion can supply." 



FROM THE LETTER FROM ITALY. 

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, 
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise ; 
Poetic fields encompass me around, 
And still I seem to tread on classic ground ; 
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, 
That not a mountain rears its head unsung ; 
Renown' d in verse each shady thicket grows, 
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. 
See how the golden groves around me smile, 
That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle ; 
Or when transplanted and preserved with care, 
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. 
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments 
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents ; 
E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, 
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. 
Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, 
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats ; 
Where western gales eternally reside, 
And all the seasons lavish all their pride ; 
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, 
And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 
How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, 
And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
Bat what avail her unexhausted stores, 
Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores, 

EBsays on the Tatler, Guardian, and Spectator, vol. i. p. 315. 



1714-1727.] addisos. 395 

With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, 
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, 
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? 
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
The reddening orange, and the swelling grain : 
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : 
Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst, 
And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. 

Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, 
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! 
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, 
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train ; 
Eased of her load, subjection grows more light, 
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight ; 
Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 

Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores ; 
How has she oft exhausted all her stores, 
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, 
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought ! 
On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine : 
With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies 
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies ; 
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, 
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 
^Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, 
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. 

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. 

I. 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye : 
My noon-day walks he shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

ii. 
When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; 
To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps he leads: 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

in. 
Though in the paths of death I tread, 
With gloomy horrors overspread, 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For thou, Lord, art with me still ; 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade 



396 FINCH. [GEORGE I. 



Though in a bare and rugged way, 
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, 
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile ; 
The barren wilderness shall smile, 
With sudden green and herbage crown'd, 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. Died 1720. 

This lady was the daughter of Sir William Kingsmill, of Sidmonton, in the 
county of Southampton, and was married to Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea. A. 
collection of her poems was printed in 1713. 

« It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, « that excepting a passage or two in 
the Windsor Forest of Pope, and some delightful pictures in the poems of 
Lady Winchelsea, the poetry of the period intervening between the publica- 
tion of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons, does not contain a single new 
image of external nature." 

THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. 

Methinks the world is oddly made, 

And every thing's amiss, 
A dull, presuming Atheist said, 
As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade ; 

And instanced it in this : 

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 

A Pumpkin large and round, 
Is held but by a little string, 
Which upwards cannot make it spring, 

Or bear it from the ground. 

Whilst on this Oak a fruit so small, 

So disproportion'd, grows ; 
That who with sense surveys this all, 
This universal casual ball, 

Its ill contrivance knows. 

My better judgment would have hung 

That weight upon a tree, 
And left this mast, thus slightly strung, 
'Mongst things which on the surface sprung, 

And small and feeble be. 

No more the caviller could say, 

Nor farther faults descry ; 
For, as he upwards gazing lay, 
An Acorn, loosen'd from the stay, 

Fell down upon his eye. 

Th' offended part with tears ran o'er, 

As punish'd for the sin; 
Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, 
Thy whimsies must have work'd no more, 

Nor skull had kept them in. 



1714-1727.] finch. 397 

life's progress. 

How gayly is at first begun 

Our life's uncertain race ! 
Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, 
With which we just set out to run, 

Enlightens all the place. 

How smiling the world's prospect lies, 

How tempting to go through ! 
Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, 
From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise, 

Did more inviting show. 

How soft the first ideas prove, 

Which wander through our minds ! 
How full the joys, how free the love, 
Which does that early season move, 

As flowers the western winds ! 

Our sighs are then but vernal air, 

But April drops our tears, 
Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, 
Whilst beauty compensates our care, 

And youth each vapor clears. 

But, oh ! too soon, alas ! we climb, 

Scarce feeling, we ascend 
The gently-rising hill of Time, 
From whence with grief we see that prime 

And all its sweetness end. 

The die now cast, our station known, 

Fond expectation past : 
The thorns which former days had sown, 
To crops of late repentance grown, 

Through which we toil at last. 

Whilst every care's a driving harm, 

That helps to bear us down ; 
Which faded smiles no more can charm, 
But every tear's a winter-storm, 

And every look's a frown. 



34 



398 prior. Tgeorge I. 



MATTHEW PRIOR. 1665—1721. 

Os the parentage of Prior very little is known. He was nephew of the 
keeper of a tavern at Charing Cross, where he was found by the Earl of 
Dorset, and sent, at his expense, to be educated at Cambridge, where he ob- 
tained a fellowship. By the same nobleman's influence, he went as secretary 
to the English ambassador at the Hague. In 1697 he was secretary of lega- 
tion at the treaty of Ryswick, and the next year held the same office at the 
court of France. At fifty-three years of age he found himself, after all his 
important employments, with no other means of subsistence than his fellow- 
ship at Cambridge ; but the publication of his poems by subscription, and the 
kindness of Lord Hasley, restored him to easy circumstances for the rest of 
his life. He died, after a lingering illness, in 1721, in the fifty-eighth year of 
his age. 

" Prior," says Campbell, « was one of the last of the race of poets who re- 
lied for ornament on scholastic allusion and pagan machinery ; but he used 
them like Swift, more in jest than earnest, and with good effect." His poetry 
has the qualities of ease, fluency, and correctness. We give one specimen: — . 

AN EPITAPH. 

Interr'd beneath this marble stone 

Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 

While rolling threescore years and one 

Did round this globe their courses run, 

If human things went ill or well, 

If changing empires rose or fell, 

The morning past, the evening came, 

And found this couple still the same. 

They walk'd, and eat, good folks : what then : 

Why then they walk'd and eat again : 

They soundly slept the night away ; 

They did just nothing all the day : 

Nor sister either had nor brother ; 

They seem'd just tallied for each other. 

Their moral and economy 
Most perfectly they made agree : 
Each virtue kept its proper bound, 
Nor trespass'd on the other's ground. 
Nor fame nor censure they regarded ■ 
They neither punish'd nor rewarded. 
He cared not what the footman did ; 
Her maids she neither praised nor chid: 
So every servant took his course, 
And, bad at first, they all grew worse. 
Slothful disorder filfd his stable, 
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. 
Their beer was strong ; their wine was port ; 
Their meal was large ; their grace was shert. 
They gave the poor the remnant meat, 
Just when it grew not fit to eat. 

They paid the church and parish rate, 
And took, but read not, the receipt; 
For which they clain/d their Sunday's due, 
Of slumbeiing in ail upper pew. 



1714-1727.] vanhomrigh. 399 

No man's defects sought they to know; 
So never made themselves a foe. 
No man's good deeds did they commend ; 
So never raised themselves a friend. 
Nor cherish*d they relations poor, 
That might decrease their present store ; 
Nor barn nor house did they repair, 
That might oblige their future heir. 

They neither added nor confounded; 
They neither wanted nor abounded. 
Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
At news of public grief or joy. 
When bells were rung and bonfires made, 
If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid : 
Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
Whoever either died or married. 
Their billet at the fire was found, 
Whoever was deposed or crown'd. 

Nor good nor bad, nor fools nor wise; 
They would not learn, nor could advise : 
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
They led — a kind of — as it were : 
Nor wish'd nor cared, nor laugh'd nor cried : 
And so they lived, and so they died. 



ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. Died 1721. 

This accomplished female is the well-known "Vanessa" of Dean Swift. 
While the following beautiful ode will give an idea of her refined taste and 
highly cultivated mind, the cold, heartless manner in which he treated Ler, 
must ever remain as a blot upon his character. 1 

ODE TO SPRING. 

Hail, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring ! 
Who, in thy jocund train, dost bring 
Loves and graces, smiling hours, 
Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers ; 
Come, with tints of roseate hue, 
Nature's faded charms renew. 

Yet why should I thy presence hail ? 
To me no more the breathing gale 
Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose 
With such transcendent beauty blows, 
As when Cadenus blest the scene, 
And shared with me those joys serene. 
When, unperceived, the lambent fire 
Of friendship kindled new desire ; 
Still listening to his tuneful tongue, 
The truths which angels might have sung 



1 Consult Scott's, or Drake's, or Sheridan's Life of Swift. 



400 KUSSELL. [GEORGE I. 

Divine imprest their gentle sway, 
And sweetly stole my soul away. 
My guide, instructor, lover, friend, 
Dear names, in one idea blend ; 
Oh ! still conjoin'd, your incense rise, 
And waft sweet odors to the skies. 



LADY RACHEL RUSSELL. 1636—1723. 

This most admirable woman was the wife of Lord William Russell, who 
was judicially murdered, on an alleged charge of treason, July 21, 1683. At 
the trial of her husband she accompanied him into court ; and when he was 
inhumanly refused counsel, and allowed only an amanuensis, she stood forth 
as that assistant, and excited the deepest sympathy as well as admiration in 
all who beheld her. After sentence was pronounced against him, she pro- 
mised him to take care of her own life, for the sake of his children, — a pro 
mise she religiously kept, though she survived him above forty years. " Her 
letters," says Burnett, "are written with an elegant simplicity, with truth and 
nature, which can flow only from the heart. The tenderness and constancy 
of her affection for her murdered lord, present an image to melt the soul." 1 

A collection of her letters between herself and her correspondents was pub- 
lished in 1773. The following is 

TO DR. FITZWILLIAM. 3 

I need not tell you, good doctor, how little capable I have been 
of such an exercise as this. You will soon find how unfit I am 
still for it, since my yet disordered thoughts can offer me no other 
than such words as express the deepest sorrows, and confused as 
my yet amazed mind is. But such men as you, and particularly 
one so much my friend, will, I know, bear with my weakness, 
and compassionate my distress, as you have already done by your 
good letter and excellent prayer. I endeavor to make the best 
use I can of both ; but I am so evil and unworthy a creature, that 
though 1 have desires, yet I have no dispositions, or worthiness, 
towards receiving comfort. You, that knew us both, and how we 
lived, must allow I have just cause to bewail my loss. I know it 
is common with others to lose a friend ; but to have lived with 
such a one, it may be questioned how few can glory in the like 
happiness, so consequently lament the like loss. Who can but 
shrink at such a blow, till by the mighty aids of his Holy Spirit, 
we will let the gift of God, which he hath put into our hearts, 
interpose ? That reason which sets a measure to our souls in 
prosperity, will then suggest many things which we have seen 

1 " I have now before me a volume of letters by the widow of the beheaded Lord Russell which 
are full of the most moving and impressive eloquence."— Horace Walpole. 

2 A divine for whom Lady Russell had a great esteem and friendship; he had been chaplain to ner 
Esther as he was afterwards to the Duke of York 



1714-1727.] sewell. 401 

and heard, to moderate us in such sad circumstances as mine 
But alas ! my understanding is clouded, my faith weak, sense 
strong, and the devil busy to fill my thoughts with false notions, 

difficulties, and doubts as of a future condition 1 of prayer : 

but this I hope to make matter of humiliation, not sin. Lord, let 
me understand the reason of these dark and wounding provi- 
dences, that I sink not under the discouragements of my own 
thoughts: I know I have deserved my punishment, and will be 
silent under it ; but yet secretly my heart mourns, too sadly, I 
fear, and cannot be comforted, because I have not the dear com- 
panion and sharer of all my joys and sorrows. I want him to 
talk with, to walk with, to eat and sleep with ; all thess things 
are irksome to me now ; the day unwelcome, and the night so 
too ; all company and meals I would avoid, if it might be ; yet all 
this is, that I enjoy not the world in my own way, and this sure 
hinders my comfort; when I see my children before me, I remem- 
ber the pleasure he took in them : this makes my heart shrink. 
Can I regret his quitting a lesser good for a bigger ? Oh ! if I 
did steadfastly believe, I could not be dejected ; for I will not injure 
myself to say, I offer my mind any inferior consolation to supply 
this loss. No ; I most willingly forsake this world, this vexatious, 
troublesome world, in which I have no other business, but to rid 
my soul from sin, secure by faith and a .good conscience my 
eternal interests, with patience and courage bear my eminent mis- 
fortunes, and ever hereafter be above the smiles and frowns of it. 
And when I have done the remnant of the work appointed me on 
earth, then joyfully wait for the heavenly perfection in God's good 
time, when by his infinite mercy I may be accounted worthy to 
enter into the same place of rest and repose where he is gone, for 

whom only I grieve I do 2 fear. From that contemplation 

must come my best support. Good doctor, you will think, as you 
have reason, that I set no bounds, when I let myself loose to my 
complaints; but I will release you, first fervently asking the con- 
tinuance of your prayers for Your infinitely afflicted, 

But very faithful servant, 
Woborne Abbey, R. R US sELL. 

30th September, 1684. 



GEORGE SEWELL. Died 1726. 

Of the life of this ingenious poet and miscellaneous writer we know but 
little. He was born at Windsor. After graduating at Cambridge as a bache- 
lor in medicine, he went over to Holland, and completed his medical educa- 
tion under the celebrated Boerhaave. On his return to England, he commenced 
practice at Hampstead, near London ; but not succeeding well in his profession, 

1 Two or three words torn off. 2 A word torn off. 

2 C 34* 



402 STEELE. [GEORGE II 

he turned his attention to literary pursuits. His chief productions are, « Sir 
Walter Raleigh," a tragedy, 1719; "Epistles to Mr. Addison, on the death 
of Lord Halifax;" "Cupid's Proclamation;" "A Vindication of the English, 
btage," &c. He died at Hampstead, in great poverty, February 8, 1726. 

Though Dr. Sewell did not write much, he deserves to be remembered 1 .r 
the following beautiful and touching verses, " said to be written upon himst L 
when he was in a consumption." 

VERSES IN ANTICIPATION OF HIS OWN DEATH. 

Why, Damon, with the forward day, 

Dost thou thy little spot survey, 

From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 

Pursue the progress of the year, 

What winds arise, what rains descend, 
When thou before that year shalt end ? 

What do thy noontide walks avail, 
To clear the leaf and pick the snail, 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect usemller than thee ? 

Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 

As low, as earthy, and as blind. 

Vain wretch ! canst thou expect to see 
The downy peach make court to thee ? 
Or that thy sense shall ever meet 
The bean-flower's deep embosom'd sweet, 

Exhaling with an evening blast ? 

Thy evenings then will all be past. 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, 
(For vanity's in little seen,) 
All must be left when Death appears, 
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 

Nor one of all thy plants that grow, 

But rosemary, will with thee go. 



SIR RICHARD STEELE. 1671—1729. 

Richard Steele was born in Dublin, 1671. His father sent him to *-» 
educated at the Charter-house in London, whence he was removed to Merto<i 
College, Oxford, 1691. Soon after leaving the university, he unfortunately im- 
bibed a fondness for the army, and entered himself as a private in the horse- 
guards, from which he was soon promoted to the office of ensign. Scarcely 
any position in life is so dangerous to one's morals, as a situation in the army 
or navy ; and so it proved to Steele, who soon plunged into the vortex of 
dissipation and intemperance; by which he laid the foundation of much 
misery and remorse during his life. In 1702 he first attracted the notice of 
'.he public as an author, by the publication of " The Funeral, or Chief d-la- 
Mode" a comedy which was successfully acted in that year. Two more 
comedies, "The Tender Husband," acted in 1703, and "The Lying Lover,' 
1704, followed this first anempt. The latter proving a failure, Steele deter- 
mined, for a time at least, to desert the stage, and projected the publication of 



1727-1760.] Steele. 403 

a periodical paper. The title of the paper, as the author observes in the first 
number, was decided upon in honor of the fair sex, and the Tatler was 
therefore placed under their jurisdiction. The name of its conductor, Isaac 
Bickerstaff, was taken from a previous publication of Swift. It was com- 
menced on the 12th of April, 1709. How, and how early, Addison came to 
know the author, is mentioned in the life of the former. « If we consider the 
invention of Steele, as discoverable in the scheme and conduct of the Tatler , 
if we reflect upon the finely drawn and highly finished character of Bicker- 
staff, in his varied offices of philosopher, humorist, astrologer, and censor, the 
vast number of his own elegant and useful papers, and the beauty and value 
of those which, through his means, saw the light, we cannot hesitate in honor- 
ing him with the appellation of the father of periodical writing." 1 

In March, 1711, he began, in conjunction with Addison, "The Spectator," 
and in 1713 "The Guardian." After the accession of George I., Steele was 
made, in 1715, surveyor of the royal stables at Hampton Court, and was 
knighted. The same year he was chosen member of parliament for Borough- 
bridge in Yorkshire, and was high in favor with the reigning powers. But 
his good fortune did not last long, and the latter years of his life he suffered 
much from poverty, caused in part from his speculating in new projects, 
one of which was, to convey live salmon from the coast of Ireland to the Lon- 
don market. At a great expense he had a vessel constructed for the purpose ; 
but, alas ! the salmon so battered themselves in their passage, as to be totally 
unfit for the market, and poor Steele lost nearly his all. " No friend of hu- 
manity," says Dr. Drake, " can contemplate the situation of Steele, during the 
latter period of his life, without sympathy and sorrow. His frailties, the 
origin of all his misfortunes, were not the offspring of vice, but merely owing 
to habitual carelessness and the want of worldly prudence. Compassionate 
in his heart, unbounded in his benevolence, no object of distress ever left him 
with a murmur ; and in the hour of prosperity he was ever ready, both with 
his influence and his property, to promote the views of literature and science, 
and to assist the efforts of unprotected genius." 

The last few years of his life he resided, by the indulgence of the mort- 
gagee, at his seat at Llangunnor, near Caermarthen, Wales, where he died on 
the 21st of September, 1729. 

The style of Steele is remarkable for its flowing ease and naturalness, but 
he is often negligent and careless, and frequently ungrammatical. It is his 
misfortune that, being a co-laborer with Addison in the same walks of litera- 
ture, he is constantly compared with him, and of course must generally suffer 
by the comparison; though at times, when he has written with more than 
usual care, he seems evidently to have imbibed a portion of Addisonian grace. 
But compared with some of the best of his predecessors, he appears in a very 
favorable light. "He will be found in purity and simplicity inferior to Tillot- 
son: to Temple in elegance and harmony: to Dryden in richness, mellow- 
ness, and variety. To the two former, however, he is equal in correctness ; 
to the latter in vivacity ; and with all he is nearly on a level as to ease and 
perspicuity." 1 

The following extracts from his periodical papers will give an idea of his 
best manner and style : — 






Drake's Essays, vol. i. p. 79. 2 Ibid. p. 201. 



404 STEELE. [GEORGE II. 

THE DREAM. 1 

I was once myself in agonies of grief that are unutterable, and 
in so great a distraction of mind, that I thought myself even out 
of the possibility of receiving comfort. The occasion was as fol- 
lows. When I was a youth in a part of the army which was 
then quartered at Dover, I fell in love with an agreeable young 
woman, of a good family in those parts, and had the satisfaction 
of seeing my addresses kindly received, which occasioned the per- 
plexity I am going to relate. 

We were in a calm evening diverting ourselves upon the top of 
a cliff with the prospect of the sea, and trifling away the time in 
such little fondnesses as are most ridiculous to people in business, 
and most agreeable to those in love. 

In the midst of these our innocent endearments, she snatched a 
paper of verses out of my hand, and ran away with them. I was 
following her, when on a sudden the ground, though at a con- 
siderable distance from the verge of the precipice, sunk under her, 
and threw her down from so prodigious a height upon such a 
range of rocks, as would have dashed her into ten thousand pieces, 
had her body been made of adamant. It is much easier for my 
reader to imagine my state of mind upon such an occasion, than 
for me to express it. I said to myself, It is not in the power of 
heaven to relieve me ! when I awaked, equally transported and 
astonished, to see myself drawn out of an affliction which, the 
very moment before, appeared to me altogether inextricable. 

The impressions of grief and horror were so lively on this oc- 
casion, that while they lasted they made me more miserable than 
I was at the real death of this beloved person, which happened a 
few months after, at a time when the match between us was con- 
cluded ; inasmuch as the imaginary death was untimely, and I 
myself in a sort an accessary ; whereas her real decease had at 
least these alleviations, of being natural and inevitable. 

The memory of the dream I have related still dwells so strongly 
upon me, that I can never read the description of Dover-clirT in 
Shakspeare's tragedy of King Lear, 2 without a fresh sense of my 

1 " One cf the finest moral tales," observes Dr. Beattie, " I ever read, is an account in the Tatler, 
which, though it has every appearance of a real dream, comprehends a moral so sublime and so inte- 
resting, that I question whether ariy man who attends to it can ever forget it; and if he remembers, 
whether he can cease to be the better for it." 

2 " Come on, sir ; here's the place :— stand still ! How fearful 

And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! 

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, 

Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down 

Hangs one that gathers samphire— dreadful trade I 

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : 

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, 

Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark. 



1727-1760.] Steele. 405 

escape. The prospect from that place is drawn with such proper 
incidents, that whoever can read it without growing giddy must 
have a good head, or a very bad one. Tatleri No . ll7 . 

THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER. 

The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of 
my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age ; but 
was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed 
with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with 
me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and 
my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my battledore in my 
hand, and fell a beating the coffin, and calling papa ; for, I know 
not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My 
mother catched me in her arms, and, transported beyond all pa- 
tience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered 
me in her embraces; and told me in a flood of tears, " Papa could 
not hear me, and would play with me no more, for 'hey were 
going to put him under ground, whence he could neve/ come to 
us again." She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, 
and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her 
transport; which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sor- 
row, that before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my 
very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. 
The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo ; and 
receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be re- 
moved by reason, as any mark, with which a child is born, is to 
be taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good 
nature in me is no merit ; but having been so frequently over- 
whelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of my affliction, 
or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed com- 
miseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which 
has since insnared me into ten thousand calamities ; from whence 
I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a humor as I 
am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softness of 
humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the 
memory of past afflictions. Taaer No 181- 

THE STRENGTH OF TRUE LOVE. 

A young gentleman and lady of ancient and honorable houses 
in Cornwall had from their childhood entertained for each other a 

Diminish'd to her cock ; * her cock, a buoy 
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, 
That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, 
Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong." 

* Her cock-boat, the small boat of a ship. 



406 STEELE. [GEORGE II. 

generous and noble passion, which had been long opposed by their 
friends, by reason of the inequality of their fortunes ; but their 
constancy to each other, and obedience to those on whom they 
depended, wrought so much upon their relations, that these cele- 
brated lovers were at length joined in marriage. Soon after their 
nuptials, the bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country, 
to take care of a considerable fortune, which was left him by a 
relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moderate 
circumstances. They received the congratulations of all the coun- 
try on this occasion ; and I remember it was a common sentence 
in every one's mouth, " You see how faithful love is rewarded." 

He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home every post fresh 
accounts of his success in his affairs abroad ; but at last, though 
he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented in his let- 
ters, that "business would detain him some time longer from 
home," because he would give himself the pleasure of an unex- 
pected arrival. 

The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every even- 
ing on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a familiar friend, 
her husband's kinswoman ; and diverted herself with what ob- 
jects they met there, or upon discourses of the future methods of 
life, in the happy change of their circumstances. They stood 
one evening on the shore together in a perfect tranquillity, ob- 
serving the setting of the sun, the calm face of the deep, and the 
silent heaving of the waves, which gently rolled towards them, 
and broke at their feet ; when at a distance her kinswoman saw 
something float on the waters, which she fancied was a chest ; 
and with a smile told her, " She saw it first, and if it came ashore 
full of jewels, she had a right to it." They both fixed their eyes 
upon it, and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, 
the cousin still asserting her right ; but promising, " if it was a 
prize, to give her a very rich coral for her youngest child." Their 
mirth soon abated, when they observed, upon the nearer approach, 
that it was a human body. The young lady, who had a heart na- 
turally filled with pity and compassion, made many melancholy re- 
flections on the occasion. " Who knows," said she, " but this man 
may be the only hope and heir of a wealthy house ; the darling 
of indulgent parents, who are now in impertinent mirth, and 
pleasing themselves with the thoughts of offering him a bride 
they had got ready for him ? Or, may he not be the master of a 
family that wholly depended upon his life ? There may, for aught 
we know, be half a dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, 
now exposed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he 
have promised himself in the different welcome he was to have 
from her and them ! But let us go away ; it is a dreadful sight ! 
J he best office we can do, is to take care that the poor man, who- 



1727-1760.] Steele. 407 

ever lie is, may be decently buried." She turned away, when a 
wave threw the carcass on the shore. The kinswoman immedi- 
ately shrieked out, " Oh, my cousin !" and fell upon the ground. 
The unhappy wife went to help her friend, when she saw her 
own husband at her feet, and dropped in a swoon upon the body. 
An old woman, who had been the gentleman's nurse, came out 
about this time to call the ladies to supper, and found her child, as 
she always called him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kins- 
woman both lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and call- 
ing her young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her 
trance ; but the wife was gone for ever. rarter> No . 82 . 

THE BLIND RESTORED TO SIGHT. 

While others are busied in relations which concern the interest 
of princes, the peace of nations, and revolutions of empire ; I 
think, though these are very great subjects, my theme of dis- 
course is sometimes to be of matters of a yet higher consideration. 
The slow steps of Providence and nature, and strange events 
which are brought about in an instant, are what, as they come 
within our view and observation, shall be given to the public. 
Such things are not accompanied with show and noise, and there- 
fore seldom draw the eyes of the unattentive part of mankind ; 
but are very proper at once to exercise our humanity, please our 
imaginations, and improve our judgments. It may not, therefore, 
be unuseful to relate many circumstances, which were ubservable 
upon a late cure done upon a young nobleman who was born 
blind, and on the twenty-ninth of June last received his sight, at 
the age of twenty years, by the operation of an oculist. This 
happened no farther off than Newington ; and the work was pre- 
pared for in the following manner : 

The operator, Mr. Grant, having observed the eyes of his pa- 
tient, and convinced his friends and relations, among others the 
reverend Mr. Caswell, minister of the place, that it was highly 
probable that he should remove the obstacle which prevented the 
use of his sight ; all his acquaintance, who had any regard for the 
young man, or curiosity to be present when one of full age and 
understanding received a new sense, assembled themselves on 
this occasion. Mr. Caswell, being a gentleman particularly curi- 
ous, desired the whole company, in case the blindness should be 
cured, to keep silence : and let the patient make his own obser- 
vations, without the direction of any thing he had received by his 
other senses, or the advantage of discovering his friends by theii 
voices. Among several others, the mother, brethren, sisters, and 
a young gentlewoman for whom he had a passion, were present. 
The work was performed with great skill and dexterity. When 
the patient first received the dawn of light, there appeared such 



408 BTEELB. [GEORGE II. 

an ecstasy in his action, that he seemed ready to swoon away in 
the surprise of joy and wonder. The surgeon stood before him 
with his instruments in his hands. The young man observed him 
from head to foot ; after which he surveyed himself as carefully, 
and seemed to compare him to himself; and observing both their 
hands, seemed to think they were exactly alike, except the instru- 
ments, which he took for parts of his hands. When he had con- 
tinued in his amazement for some time, his mother could not 
longer bear the agitations of so many passions as thronged upon 
her ; but fell upon his neck, crying out, " My son ! my son !" 
The youth knew her voice, and could speak no more than, " Oh 
me ! are you my mother ?" and fainted. The whole room, you 
will easily conceive, were very affectionately employed in reco- 
vering him ; but, above all, the young gentlewoman who loved 
him, and whom he loved, shrieked in the loudest manner. That 
voice seemed to have a sudden effect upon him as he recovered, 
and he showed a double curiosity in observing her as she spoke 
and called to him ; until at last he broke out, " What has been 
done to me ? Whither am I carried ? Is all this about me, the 
thing I have heard so often of? Is this the light ? Is this seeing? 
Were you always thus happy when you said you were glad to 
see each other ? Where is Tom, who used to lead me ? But I 
could now, methinks, go anywhere without him !" He offered to 
move, but seemed afraid of every thing around him. When they 
saw his difficulty, they told him, " until he became better ac- 
quainted with his new being, be must let the servant still lead 
him." The boy was called for, and presented to him. Mr. Cas- 
well asked him, " What sort of thing he took Tom to be before he 
had seen him ?" He answered, " he believed there was not so 
much of him as himself; but he fancied him the same sort of 
creature." The noise of this sudden change made all the neigh- 
borhood throng to the place where he was. As he saw the crowd 
thickening, he desired Mr. Caswell to tell him how many there 
were in all to be seen. The gentleman, smiling, answered him, 
that " it would be very proper for him to return to his late condi- 
tion, and suffer his eyes to be covered, until they had received 
strength ; for he might remember well enough, that by degrees 
he had from little to little come to the strength he had at present 
in his ability in walking and moving: and that it was the same 
thing with his eyes, which," he said, " would lose the power of 
continuing to him that wonderful transport he was now in, except 
he would be contented to lay aside the use of them, until they 
were strong enough to bear the light without so much feeling as, 
ne knew, he underwent at present." With much reluctance he 
was prevailed upon to have his eyes bound ; in which condition 
they kept him in a dark room, until it was proper to let the organ 



1727-1760.] Steele. 409 

receive its objects without further precaution. During the time 
of this darkness, he bewailed himself in the most distressed man- 
ner ; and accused all his friends, complaining that " some incan- 
tation had been wrought upon him, and some strange magic used 
to deceive him into an opinion that he had enjoyed what they 
called sight." He added, " that the impressions then let in upon 
his soul would certainly distract him, if he were not so at that 
present." At another time, he would strive to name the persons 
he had seen among the crowd after he was couched, and would 
pretend to speak, in perplexed terms of his own making, of 
what he, in that short time, observed. But on the sixth instant 
it was thought fit to unbind his head, and the young woman 
whom he loved was instructed to open his eyes accordingly, as 
well to endear herself to him by such a circumstance, as to mo- 
derate his ecstasies by the persuasion of a voice which had so 
much power over him as hers ever had. When this beloved 
young woman began to take off the binding of his eyes, she 
talked to him as follows : 

" Mr. William, I am now taking the binding off, though when 
I consider what I am doing, I tremble with the apprehension, that, 
though I have from my very childhood loved you, dark as you 
were, and though you had conceived so strong a love for me, you 
will find there is such a thing as beauty, which may ensnare you 
into a thousand passions of which you are now innocent, and take 
you from me for ever. But, before I put myself to that hazard, 
tell me in what manner that love, you always professed to me, 
entered into your heart ; for its usual admission is at the eyes." 

The young man answered, " Dear Lydia, if I am to lose by 
sight the soft pantings which I have always felt when I heard 
your voice ; if I am no more to distinguish the step of her I love 
when she approaches me, but to change that sweet and frequent 
pleasure for such an amazement as I knew the little time I lately 
saw ; or if I am to have any thing besides, which may take from 
me the sense I have of what appeared most pleasing to me at that 
time, which apparition it seems was you ; pull out these eyes, 
before they lead me to be ungrateful to you, or undo mysdf. I 
wished for them but to see you : pull them out, if they are to 
make me forp-et you." 

Lydia was extremely satisfied with these assurances ; and 
pleased herself with playing with his perplexities. In all his 
talk to her, he showed but very faint ideas of any thing which 
had not been received at the ears ; and closed his protestation to 
her, by saying, that if he were to see Valentia and Barcelona , 
whom he supposed the most esteemed of all women, by the quar 
rel there was about them, he would never like any but Lydia. 

Tatter, No. $6, 

35 



410 DE FOE. [GEORGE II. 



DANIEL DE FOE. 1661—1731. 

Daniel De Foe, the author of that remarkable book of world-wide fame, 
"Robinson Crusoe," was born in London, 1661. Of his youthful years we 
know but little ; but that his education was not neglected, and that he applied 
himself with assiduity to his studies, we may fairly infer from his subsequent 
success in the walks of literature. He first engaged in trade, but after a few 
years' trial of it, he found that that was not his sphere : his lively imagina- 
tion, eager interest in politics, and fondness for literature, disqualified him for 
commercial matters. In 1700 he published his "True-Born Englishman," a 
pamphlet in answer to a libel on King William, with which his majesty was 
well pleased. From that time forth, he wrote with unwearied assiduity, and 
in 1704 first published his "Review," a periodical paper written exclusively 
by himself, and which he continued to publish twice or three times a week 
for nine years. This resembled, more than any other preceding work, the 
Tatler and Spectator ; but borne down by a rude mass of temporary and un- 
interesting matter, connected with the news and politics of the day, it soon 
sunk into oblivion. 

After the death of Queen Anne, in 1714, the continued attacks of his politi- 
cal opponents so weighed upon his mind and depressed his spirits, that his 
health gave way, and he was for a time dangerously ill. When he recovered, 
he resolved to abandon his old field of political satire and invective, and to 
enter upon a new one ; and accordingly he put forth the first part of his in- 
imitable "Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," which no story has ever ex- 
ceeded in popularity. The great success that attended this, induced him to 
write a second and a third part, which, however, are very inferior to the 
first. The multitude, of books and pamphlets which he subsequently pub- 
lished, we have not space to enumerate. 1 Some of the most popular of these 
were, " The Adventures of Captain Singleton," " The Fortunes ol Moll Flan 
ders," « The Memoirs of a Cavalier," " A Tour through Great Britain, ' " A 
History of the Plague," and " The true Relation of the Apparition of one Mrs. 
Veal, the next Day after her Death." The last was afterwards subjoined to 
the editions of « Drelincourt on Death," and made that otherwise unsaleable 
book much sought after. One of his works had the following curious title : 
" Mars stript of his armor : a lashing caricature of the habits and manners of 
all kinds of military men, written on purpose to delight quiet trades-people, 
and cure their daughters of their passion for red-coats." He died on the 24th 
of April, 1731, in the seventy-first year of his age. 

De Foe was a very remarkable man. His power, as a writer, of seizing 
and retaining a strong hold upon the popular mind, has seldom been equalled. 
Of great originality, and of strong and clear conceptions, "which he was able 
to embody in language equally perspicuous and forcible, he has the power of 
"forging the handwriting of nature," and of giving to fiction all the appear- 
ance of reality. By a particularity and minuteness of description which his 
skill prevents from being tedious, he increases the probability of his story, and 

1 Lowndes gives the titles of ninety-seven different works that De Foe wrote, and his list is probably 
Incomplete. " The fertility of De Foe," says Sir Walter Scott, " was astonishing. He wrote on all 
occasions and on all subjects, and seemingly had little time for preparation on the subject in hand, 
but treated it from the stores which his memory retained of early reading, and such hints as he had 
caught up in society, not one of which seems to have been lo.st upon him- , • Bead— an interesting lift 
of De Fob in Sir Walter Scott's Prose Works. 



1721-1760.] de foe. 411 

gives to its reader a continually increasing interest in it ; so that no author of 
imaginary tales has impressed so many persons with the belief that they have 
been reading a true, rather than a fictitious narrative. Of that most popular, 
delightful, and extraordinary of all his works, " Robinson Crusoe," which had 
lost none of its original attractions even at the distance of half a century, Dr, 
Johnson observed, "Nobody ever laid it down without wishing it were 
longer." 

ROBINSON CRUSOE DISCOVERS THE FOOT-PRINT. 

It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was 
exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on the 
shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand : I stood like 
one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition : I listened. 
I looked round me, I could hear nothing, nor see any thing ; I 
went up to a rising ground to look farther: I went up the shore, 
and down the shore, but it was all one, I could see no other im- 
pression but that one : I went to it again to see if there were any 
more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy ; but there was 
no room for that, for there was exactly the very print of a foot ? 
toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it came thither I knew 
not, nor could in the least imagine. But after innumerable flut- 
tering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused, and out of myself. 
I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground 
I went on, but terrified to the last degree, looking behind me at 
every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and 
fancying every stump at a distance to be a man ; nor is it possible 
to describe how many various shapes an affrighted imagination 
represented things to me in ; how many wild ideas were formed 
every moment in my fancy, and what strange, unaccountable 
whimsies came into my thoughts by the way. 

When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it ever after 
this, I fled into it like one pursued ; whether I went over by the 
ladder, at first contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, which 
I called a door, I cannot remember ; for never frighted hare fled 
to cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind than I to this 
retreat. 

How strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of man ! 
And by what secret differing springs are the affections hurried 
about, as differing circumstances present ! To-day we love what 
to-morrow we hate ; to-day we seek what to-morrow we shun ; 
to-day we desire what to-morrow we fear ; nay, even tremble at 
the apprehensions of. This was exemplified in me at this time 
in the most lively manner imaginable ; for I, whose only affliction 
was, that I seemed banished from human society, that I was alone, 
circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and 
condemned to what I call a silent life ; that I was as one whom 
Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among the living, 01 



412 DE FOE. [GEORGE II, 

to appear among the rest of his creatures ; that to have seen one 
of my own species would have seemed to me a raising me from 
death to life, and the greatest blessing that Heaven itself, next to 
the supreme blessing of salvation, could bestow ; I say, that I 
should now tremble at the very apprehensions of seeing a man, 
and was ready to sink into the ground, at but the shadow, or silent 
appearance of a man's having set his foot on the island ! 

Such is the uneven state of human life ; and it afforded me a 
great many curious speculations afterwards, when I had a little 
recovered my first surprise. I considered that this was the station 
of life the infinitely wise and good providence of God had deter- 
mined for me ; that as I could not foresee what the ends of divine 
wisdom might be in all this, so I was not to dispute his sove- 
reignty, who, as I was his creature, had an undoubted right by 
creation to govern and dispose of me absolutely as he thought fit ; 
and who, as I was a creature who had offended him, had likewise 
a judicial right to condemn me to what punishment he thought fit; 
and that it was my part to submit to bear his indignation, because 
I had sinned against him. 

I then reflected, that God, who was not only righteous, but 
omnipotent, as he had thought fit thus to punish and afflict me, so 
he was able to deliver me ; that if he did not think fit to do it, it 
was my unquestioned duty to resign myself absolutely and entirely 
to his will : and, on the other hand, it was my duty also to. hope 
in him, pray to him, and quietly to attend the dictates and direc- 
tions of his daily providence. 

These thoughts took me up many hours, days, nay, I may say, 
weeks and months ; and one particular effect of my cogitations on 
this occasion I cannot omit ; viz., one morning early, lying in m)' 
bed, and filled with thoughts about my danger from the appear- 
ance of savages, I found it discomposed me very much ; upon 
which those words of the Scripture came into my thoughts, Call 
upon me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou 
shalt glorify me. 

Upon this, rising cheerfully out of my bed, my heart was not 
only comforted, but I was guided and encouraged to pray earnestly 
to God for deliverance. When I had done praying, I took up my 
Bible, and, opening it to read, the first words that presented 
to me, were, Wait on the Lord, and be of good courage, and 
he shall strengthen thy heart: Wait, I say, on the Lord. It 
is impossible to express the comfort this gave me ; and in return, 
I thankfully laid down the book, and was no more sad, at least, 
not on that occasion. 

In the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and reflec- 
tions, it came into my thoughts one day, that all this might be a 
mere chimera of my own, and that this foot might be the print of 



1727-1760.] de foe. 413 

my own foot, when I came on shore from my boat : this cheered 
me up a little too, and I began to persuade myself it was all 
a delusion; that it \*as nothing else but my own foot; and why 
might not I come that way from the boat, as well as I was going 
that way to the boat ? Again, I considered also, that I could by 
no means tell for certain where I had trod, and where I had not ; 
and that if at last this was only the print of my own foot, I had 
played the part of those fools, who strive to make stories of spec- 
tres and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them 
more than anybody else. 

Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again ; for I 
had not stirred out of my castle for three days and nights, so that 
I began to starve for provision ; for I had little or nothing within 
doors, but some barley-cakes and water. Then I knew that my 
goats wanted to be milked too, which usually was my evening 
diversion ; and the poor creatures were in great pain and incon- 
venience for want of it ; and indeed it almost spoiled some of them, 
and almost dried up their milk. 

Heartening myself, therefore, with the belief, that this was no- 
thing but the print of one of my own feet, (and sol might be truly 
said to start at my own shadow,) I began to go abroad again, and 
went to my country-house to milk my flock ; but to see with what 
fear I went forward, how often I looked behind me, how I was 
ready, every now and then, to lay down my basket, and run for 
my life ; it would have made any one have thought I was haunted 
with an evil conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly 
frighted ; and so indeed I had. 

However, as I went down thus two or three days, and having 
seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to think there was 
really nothing in it but my own imagination. But I could not per- 
suade myself fully of this, till I should go down to the shore again, 
and see this print of a foot, and measure it by my own, and see if 
there was any similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was 
my own foot. But when I came to the place first, it appeared 
evidently to me, that when I laid up my boat, I could not possibly 
be on shore anywhere thereabouts. Secondly, when I came to 
measure the mark with my own foot, I found my foot not so large 
by a great deal. Both these things filled my head with new ima- 
ginations, and gave me the vapors again to the highest degree ; 
so that I shook with cold, like one in an ague ; and I went home 
asrain, filled with the belief, that some man or men had been on 
shore there ; or, in short, that the island was inhabited, and 1 
might be surprised before I was aware ; and what course to take 
for my security, I knew not. O what ridiculous resolutions men 
take, when possessed with fear ! It deprives them of the use of 
those means which reason offers for their relief, 

35* 



414 GAY. [GEORGE II. 



JOHN GAY. 1688—1732. 

John Gat, descended from a respectable family in Devonshire, was born 
in 1688, the year of the "glorious Revolution." WLen young he was put 
apprentice to a silk-mercer in London ; but having imbibed a taste for poetry 
and classical literature, his indentures were cheerfully cancelled by his mas- 
ter, and a poem, entitled " Rural Sports," which he soon published and dedi- 
cated to Pope, obtained the sincere and lasting friendship of that poet. By 
him Gay was introduced to that brilliant circle of wits, of which Pope was the 
centre, and of it he ever continued the favorite. In 1712 he was appointed 
secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, which situation left him at full liberty 
to indulge his taste for elegant literature. Soon after, he published his " Tri- 
via, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London," " a fine specimen," says 
Dr. Drake, " of that species of burlesque, in which elevated language is em- 
ployed in the detail of trifling, mean, or ludicrous circumstances." He then 
entered the walks of dramatic literature, but without any success, until, in 
1727, he published his "Beggar's Opera," designed to ridicule the Italian 
opera, and to satirize the court. He offered it to Rich, the manager of Drury- 
Lane Theatre, and such was its great popularity, that it was humorously re- 
marked that this opera had made Gay rich, and Rich gay. 

But the most finished productions of our poet, and those to which he will 
owe his reputation with posterity, are his " Fables,"— the finest in the language. 
They are written with great spirit and vivacity; the versification is generally 
smooth and flowing ; the descriptions happy and appropriate, and the moral 
designed to be conveyed is, for the most part, impressive and instructive. 
Besides these, he was the author of the " Fan," a mythological fiction ; of 
"Dione," a pastoral drama; of "Achilles," an opera, and many songs and 
ballads. The publication of these various works placed him in easy circum- 
stances as to fortune ; but no sooner was he released from pecuniary anxiety, 
than his health began to decline ; and he was at length seized with an in- 
flammatory disease, which carried him off in three days, and he expired on 
the 4th of December, 1732, in the forty-fourth year of his age. He was buried 
in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his me- 
mory, for which Pope wrote an inscription. 

Few men were more beloved by those who intimately knew him than Gay. 
His moral character was excellent, his temper peculiarly sweet and engaging, 
but he possessed a simplicity of manner and character which, though it en- 
deared him to his friends, rendered him very unfit for the general business 
of life. The two first lines of the epitaph of Pope most truthfully character 
ize him :— 

" Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
In wit, a man ; simplicity, a child." 

THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF. 

Seek you to train your favorite boy? 
Each caution, every care employ ; 
And, ere you venture to confide, 
Let his preceptor's heart be tried : 
Weigh well his manners, life, and scope ; 
On these depends thy future hope. 
As on a time, in peaceful reign, 
A Bull enjoy'd the flowery plain, 



1727-1760.] gay. 415 

A Mastiff pass'd ; inflamed with ire, 

His eyeballs shot indignant fire. 

He foam'd, he raged with thirst of blood. 

Spurning the ground, the monarch stood, 
And roar'd aloud : " Suspend the fight ; 
In a whole skin go sleep to-night: 
Or tell me, ere the battle rage, 
What wrongs provoke thee to engage ? 
Is it ambition fires thy breast, 
Or avarice, that ne'er can rest? 
From these alone unjustly springs 
The world-destroying wrath of kings." 

The surly Mastiff thus returns : 
" Within my bosom glory burns. 
Like heroes of eternal name, 
Whom poets sing, I fight for fame. 
The butcher's spirit-stirring mind 
To daily war my youth inclined ; 
He train'd me to heroic deed, 
Taught me to conquer, or to bleed." 

' ; Cursed Dog," the Bull replied, " no more 
I wonder at thy thirst of gore ; 
For thou (beneath a butcher train'd, 
Whose hands with cruelty are stain'd, 
His daily murders in thy view) 
Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue. 
Take, then, thy fate." With goring wound 
At once he lifts him from the ground : 
Aloft the sprawling hero flies, 
Mangled he falls, he howls, and dies. 

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 

Friendship, like love, is but a name, 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child, whom many fathers share, 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendships ; who depend 
On many, rarely And a friend. 

A Hare, who, in a civil way, 
Complied with every thing, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain ; 
Her care was never to offend ; 
And every creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies.. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath 
She hears the near advance of death ; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound, 
And measures back her mazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay. 






416 GAY. [geokqe II. 

What transport in her bosom grew, 
When first the Horse appear'd in view ! 

" Let me," says she, " your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight : 
To friendship every burden's light." 

The horse replied, " Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
Be comforted, relief is near, 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately Bull implored ; 
And thus replied the mighty lord : 
" Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
To leave you thus might seem unkind ; 
But, see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remark'd, " her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye : 
My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The sheep was feeble, and complain'd 
" His sides a load of wool sustain'd ; 
Said he was slow, confess'd his fears ; 
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares." 

She now the trotting calf address'd, 
To save from death a friend distress'd. 

" Shall I," says he, "of tender age, 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler pass'd you by ; 
How strong are those ! how weak am I ! 
Should I presume to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine may take offence. 
Excuse me, then ; you know my heart ; 
But dearest friends, alas ! must part. 
How shall we all lament ! Adieu ; 
For see the hounds are just in view." 

Gay wrote but little prose, except letters. He was too lazy to be a volu- 
minous correspondent, but his style is easy, natural, and amusing. He had 
accompanied Pope to the seat of Lord Harcourt in Oxfordshire ; and during 
his visit a violent thunder-storm occurred, the fatal effects of which upon two 
persons he gives in the following beautiful and affecting letter: — 

THE VILLAGE LOVERS. 

Stanton Harcourt, Aug. 19, 1718. 
The only news that you can expect to have from me here is 
news from heaven, for I am quite out of the world ; and there is 
scarce any thing can reach me except the voice of thunder, which 
undoubtedly you have heard too. We have read in old authors of 
high towers levelled by it to the ground, while the humbler valleys 
have escaped : the only thing that is proof against it is the laurel 



1727-1760.] gay. 417 

which, however, I take to he no great security to the hrains of 
modern authors. But to let you see that the contrary to this often 
happens, I must acquaint you, that the highest and most extrava- 
gant heap of towers in the universe which is in this neighborhood, 
stands still undefaced, while a cock of barley in our next field has 
been consumed to ashes. Would to God that this heap of barley 
had been all that perished! for, unhappily, beneath this little shel- 
ter sat two much more constant lovers than ever were found in 
romance under the shade of a beech-tree. John Hewet was a 
well-set man, of about five-and-twenty ; Sarah Drew might be 
rather called comely than beautiful, and was about the same age. 
They had passed through the various labors of the year together, 
with the greatest satisfaction : if she milked, it was his morning 
and evening care to bring the cows to her hand ; it was but last 
fair that he bought her a present of green silk for her straw hat ; 
and the posie on her silver ring was of his choosing. Their love 
was the talk of the whole neighborhood. It was that very morn- 
ing that he had obtained the consent of her parents ; and it was 
but till the next week that they were to wait to be happy. Per- 
haps, in the intervals of their work, they were now talking of the 
wedding-clothes ; and John was suiting several sorts of poppies 
and field-flowers to her complexion, to choose her a knot for the 
wedding-day. While they were thus busied, (it was on the last 
of July, between two and three in the afternoon,) the clouds grew 
black, and such a storm of thunder and lightning ensued, that all 
the laborers made the best of their way to what shelter the trees 
and hedges afforded. Sarah was frightened, and fell down in a 
swoon on a heap of barley. John, who never separated from her, 
sat down by her side, having raked together two or three heaps, 
the better to secure her from the storm. Immediately there was 
heard so loud a crack, as if heaven had split asunder : every one 
was now solicitous for the safety of his neighbor, and called to one 
another throughout the field : no answer being returned to those 
who called to our lovers, they stepped to the place where they 
lay ; they perceived the barley all in a smoke, and then spied this 
faithful pair: John with one arm about Sarah's neck, and the 
other held over her, as to screen her from the lightning. They 
were struck dead, and stiffened in this tender posture. Sarah's 
left eyebrow was singed, and there appeared a black spot on her 
breast : her lover was all over black, but not the least signs of life 
were found in either. Attended by their melancholy companions, 
they were conveyed to the town, and the next day were interred 
in Stanton Harcourt church-yard. My Lord Harcourt, at Mr. 
Pope's and my request, has caused a stone to be placed over them, 
upon condition that we furnished the epitaph, which is as fol- 
lows : — 

2D 



418 BOOTH. [GEORGE H. 

When eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, 
On the same pile the faithful pair expire : 
Here pitying Heaven that virtue mutual found, 
And blasted both that it might neither wound. 
Hearts so sincere, the Almighty saw well pleased, 
Sent his own lightning, and the victims seized. 

But my Lord is apprehensive the country people will not under- 
stand this ; and Mr. Pope says he'll make one with something 
of Scripture in it, and with as little of poetry as Hopkins and 
Sternhold. Yours, &c. 



BARTON BOOTH. 1681—1733. 



Baktou Booth, though known in his day chiefly as an actor, deserves 8 
notice in this work for his very beautiful song, entitled, 

SWEET ARE THE CHARMS OF HER I LOVE. 

Sweet are the charms of her I love, 

More fragrant than the damask rose, 
Soft as the down of turtle-dove, 

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows, 
Refreshing as descending rains 
To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains. 
True as the needle to the pole, 

Or as the dial to the sun ; 
Constant as gliding waters roll, 

Whose swelling tides obey the moon ; 
From every other charmer free, 
My life and love shall follow thee. 
The lamb the flowery thyme devours, 

The dam the tender kid pursues ; 
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers 

Of verdant spring, her note renews ; 
All follow what they most admire, 
As I pursue my soul's desire. 
Nature must change her beauteous face, 

And vary as the seasons rise ; 
As winter to the spring gives place, 

Summer th' approach of autumn flies : 
No change on love the seasons bring, 
. Love only knows perpetual spring. 
Devouring Time, with stealing pace, 

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow ; 
And marble towers, and gates of brass, 

In his rude march he levels low : 
But Time, destroying far and wide, 
Love from the soul can ne'er divide. 
Death only, with his cruel dart, 

The gentle godhead can remove ; 
And drive him from the bleeding heart 

To mingle with the bless'd above, 



1727-1760.] AEBUTHNOT. 419 

Where, known to all his kindred train, 
He finds a lasting rest from pain. 

Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, 

Twin-born, from heaven together came : 

Love will the universe control, 

When dying seasons lose their name ; 

Divine abodes shall own his power 

When time and death shall be no more. 



JOHN ARBUTHNOT. Died 1735. 



John - Arbuthnot, the son of a clergyman of the Episcopal church of Scot, 
land, was born at Arbuthnot, near Montrose, not long after the Restoration. 
Having at a proper age entered the University of Aberdeen, he applied him- 
self with diligence to his studies. After taking his doctor's degree in medi 
cine, he resolved to push his fortunes in London. He began by teaching 
mathematics as a means of subsistence ; and in 1697 he published "An Exa- 
mination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge." This was considered 
a very learned performance, in the then infancy of geology ; and his practice 
increasing with his profession, he became known to the most celebrated men 
of his day, and was, in 1704, elected a fellow of the Royal Society. The in- 
timate friend and associate of Pope, Swift, Gay, Addison, Parnell, and other 
leading minds of that bright period of English literature, he was inferior to 
neither in learning or in wit, while in the versatility of his powers he was 
decidedly pre-eminent. 

In 1714 the celebrated " Scriblerus Club" was formed, consisting of r*««t of 
the greatest wits and statesmen of the times. In this brilliant collection of 
learning and genius, no one was better qualified than Dr. Arbuthnot, both in 
point of wit and erudition, to promote the object of the society, which was " to 
ridicule all the false tastes in learning under the character of a man of capa- 
city enough, that had dipped into every art and science, but injudiciously in 
each." One of the productions of this club was the " Memoirs of Martinus 
Scriblerus," written conjointly by Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, though the latter 
doubtless wrote the greater part of it. It is a severe satire upon the follies of 
mankind ; and for keen wit, cutting sarcasm, and genuine humor, has not, 
perhaps, its superior in the language ; but disfigured, as it occasionally is, by 
a coarseness and vulgarity which the manners of the age readily tolerated, i\ 
is now but little read. 

Dr. Arbuthnot died on the 27th February, 1735. As a wit and a scholar 
the character in which he is best known to us, he may be justly ranked among 
the most eminent men of an age distinguished by a high cultivation of intel- 
lect and an almost exuberant display of wit and genius. " His good morals,' 
Pope used to say, " were equal to any man's, but his wit and humor superioi 
to all mankind." " He has more wit than we all have," said Dean Swift to 
a lady, " and his humanity is equal to his wit." In addition to these brilliant 
qualities, the higher praise of benevolence and goodness is most deservedly 
due to him. His warmth of heart and cheerfulness of temper rendered him 
much beloved by his family and friends, towards whom he displayed the 
most constant affection and attachment. 1 



1 Rend an article In Retrospective R«view, viil 285. 



420 ARBUTHNOT. [GEORGE II. 

Among the miscellaneous writings of Dr. Arbuthnot there is a short poem, 
which, notwithstanding its faults in metre, and occasional harshness, " may 
fairly be ranked as one of the noblest philosophical poems in the language. 
It is marked by a conciseness and strength in the argument, a grandeur of 
thought, a force and propriety of language, a fine discrimination, and a vigor- 
ous grasp of mind, together with sound principles and pious sentiments, that 
are not often combined within the same limits." * 

KNOW YOURSELF. 

What am I ? how produced 1 and for what end 1 
Whence drew I being % to what period tend % 
Am I the abandon'd orphan of blind chance ? 
Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance ? 
Or from an endless chain of causes wrought? 
And of unthinking substance born with thought : 
By motion which began without a cause, 
Supremely wise, without design or laws ? 
Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood ; 
A branching channel, with a mazy flood ? 
The purple stream that through my vessels glides, 
Dull and unconscious flows like common tides : 
The pipes through which the circling juices stray, 
Are not that thinking I, no more than they : 
This frame compacted with transcendent skill, 
Of moving joints obedient to my will, 
Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, 
Waxes and wastes ; I call it mine, not me : 
New matter still the mouldering mass sustains, 
The mansion changed, the tenant still remains : 
And from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food, 
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood. 
What am I then % sure, of a nobler birth. 
By parents' right I own, as mother, earth ; 
But claim superior lineage by my Sire, 
Who warm'd th' unthinking clod with heavenly fire: 
Essence divine, with lifeless clay allay'd, 
By double nature, double instinct sway'd ; 
With look erect, I dart my longing eye, 
Seem wing'd to part, and gain my native sky ; 
I strive to mount, but strive, alas ! in vain, 
Tied to this massy globe with magic chain. 
Now with swift thought I range from pole to pole, 
View worlds around their flaming centres roll : 
What steady powers their endless motions guide, 
Through the same trackless paths of boundless void ! 
I trace the blazing comet's fiery trail, 
And weigh the whirling planets in a scale : 
These godlike thoughts, while eager I pursue 
Some glittering trifle offer'd to my view, 
A gnat, an insect of the meanest kind, 
Erase the new-born image from my mind ; 
Some beastly want, craving, importunate, 
Vile as the grinning mastiff at my gate, 

1 " The Friend," i. 202. 



1727-1760.] ABBUTHiroT. 421 

Calls off from heavenly truth this reasoning me, 

And tells me, I'm a brute as much as he. 

If on sublimer wings of love and praise, 

My soul above the starry vault I raise, 

Lured by some vain conceit, or shameful lust, 

I flag, I drop, and flutter in the dust. 

The towering lark thus from her lofty strain 

Stoops to an emmet, or a barley grain. 

By adverse gusts of jarring instincts tost, 

I rove to one, now to the other coast ; 

To bliss unknown my lofty soul aspires, 

My lot unequal to my vast desires. 

As 'mongst the hinds a child of royal birth 

Finds his high pedigree by conscious worth ; 

So man, amongst his fellow brutes exposed, 

Sees he's a king, but 'tis a king deposed : 

Pity him, beasts ! you, by no law confined, 

Are barr'd from devious paths by being blind ; 

Whilst man, through opening views of various ways 

Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays ; 

Too weak to choose, yet choosing still in haste, 

One moment gives the pleasure and distate ; 

Bilk'd by past minutes, while the present cloy, 

The flattering future still must give the joy. 

Not happy, but amused upon the road, 

And (like you) thoughtless of his last abode, 

Whether next sun his being shall restrain 

To endless nothing, happiness, or pain. 

Around me, lo, the thinking, thoughtless crew, 
(Bewildered each) their different paths pursue ; 
Of tliem I ask the way ; the first replies, 
Thou art a god ; and sends me to the skies. 
Down on the turf (the next) thou two-legg'd beast, 
There fix thy lot, thy bliss, and endless rest 
Between these wide extremes the length is such, 
I find I know too little or too much. 

" Almighty Power, by whose most wise command, 
Helpless, forlorn, uncertain here I stand ; 
Take this faint glimmering of thyself away, 
Or break into my soul with perfect day !" 
This said, expanded lay the sacred text, 
The balm, the light, the guide of souls perplex'd : 
Thus the benighted traveller tiiat strays 
Through doubtful paths, enjoys the morning rays ; 
The nightly mist, and thick descending dew, 
Parting, unfold the fields, and vaulted blue. 
" Truth divine ! enlighten'd by thy ray, 
I grope and guess no more, but see my way ; 
Thou clear'dst the secret of my high descent; 
And told me what those mystic tokens meant ; 
Marks of my birth, which I had worn in vain, 
Too hard for worldly sages to explain. 
Zeno's were vain, vain Epicurus' schemes, 
Their systems false, delusive were their dreams; 
36 



422 ROWE. [GEORGE K. 

Unskill'd my two-fold nature to divide, 

One nursed my pleasure, and one nursed my pride : 

Those jarring truths -which human art beguile, 

Thy sacred page thus bids me reconcile." 

Offspring of God, no less thy pedigree, 

What thou once wert, art now, and still may be, 

Thy God alone can tell, alone decree 5 

Faultless thou dropt from his unerring skill, 

With the bare power to sin, since free of will : 

Yet charge not with thy guilt his bounteous love, 

For who has power to walk, has power to rove: 

Who acts by force impell'd, can naught deserve; 

And wisdom short of infinite may swerve. 

Borne on thy new-imp'd wings, thou took'st thy flight, 

Left thy Creator, and the realms of light ; 

Disdain'd his gentle precept to fulfil ; 

And thought to grow a god by doing ill : 

Though by foul guilt thy heavenly form defaced, 

In nature chang'd, from happy mansions chased, 

Thou still retain'st some sparks of heavenly fire, 

Too faint to mount, yet restless to aspire ; 

Angel enough to seek thy bliss again, 

And brute enough to make thy search in vain. 

The creatures now withdraw their kindly use, 

Some fly thee, some torment, and some seduce ; 

Repast ill suited to such different guests, 

For what thy sense desires, thy soul distastes ; 

Thy lust, thy curiosity, thy pride, 

Curb'd, or deferr'd, or balk'd, or gratified, 

Rage on, and make thee equally unbless'd, 

In what thou want'st, and what thou hast possess'^. 

In vain thou hopest for bliss on this poor clod, 

Return, and seek thy Father, and thy God: 

Yet think not to regain thy native sky, 

Borne on the wings of vain philosophy ; 

Mysterious passage ! hid from human eyes ; 

Soaring you'll sink, and sinking you will rise : 

Let humble thoughts thy wary footsteps guide, 

Regain by meekness what you lost by pride. 



ELIZABETH ROWE. 1674—1737. 

Elizabeth Rowe, distinguished for her piety, literature, and poetical 
talents, was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a clergyman of Ilchester 
She early evinced a very decided taste for reading and poetry, and in hei 
twenty-second year she published a volume of " Poems on Several Occasions, 
by Philomela." In 1710 she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a gentleman of 
considerable literary attainments, who was some years her junior, but who, to 
ner great grief, died of consumption but a few years after their marriage, at 
the early age of twenty-eight. After his death she retired to Frome, in the 
neighborhood of which she possessed a paternal estate, and there composed 
her once celebrated work, « Letters from the Dead to the Living." She died 
in 1737. 



1727- 1760. J rowe. 423 

« The poems of Mrs. Rowe," says Southey, " show much spirit and cultiva- 
tion, and are chiefly characterized by their devotion. They are at times a 
little more enthusiastic than is allowable even for poetry, and are sometimes 
distorted by metaphysics, but generally their beauties prevail over their faults." 

DESPAIR. 

Oh! lead me to some solitary gloom, 

Where no enlivening beams nor cheerful echoes come ; 

But silent all, and dusky let it be, 

Remote, and unfrequented but by me ; 

Mysterious, close, and sullen as that grief 

Which leads me to its covert for relief. 

Far from the busy world's detested noise, 

Its wretched pleasures, and distracted joys 

Far from the jolly fools, who laugh and play, 

And dance, and sing, impertinently gay, 

Their short, inestimable hours away ; 

Far from the studious follies of the great, 

The tiresome farce of ceremonious state. 

There, in a melting, solemn, dying strain, 

Let me all day upon my lyre complain. 

And wind up all its soft harmonious strings, 

To noble, serious, melancholy things. 

And let no human foot, but mine, e'er trace 

The close recesses of the sacred place : 

Nor let a bird of cheerful note come near, 

To whisper out his airy raptures here. 

Only the pensive songstress of the grove, 

Let her, by mine, her mournful notes improve ; 

While drooping winds among the branches sigh, 

And sluggish waters heavily roll by. 

Here, to my fatal sorrows let me give 

The short remaining hours I have to live. 

Then, with a sullen, deep-fetch'd groan expire, 

And to the grave's dark solitude retire. 



In imitation of Canticles, v. 6, 7. 

Ye pure inhabitants of light, 

Ye virgin minds above, 
That feel the sacred violence 

And mighty force of love : 
By all your boundless joys, by all 

Your love to human kind, 
I charge you to instruct me where 

My absent Lord to find. 
I've search'd the pleasant vales and plains. 

And climb'd the hills around ; 
But no glad tidings of my love 

Among the swains have found. 
I've oft invoked him in the shades, 

By every stream and rock ; 
The rocks, the streams, and echoing shades, 

My vain industry mock. 



424 GEOVE. [GEORGE II. 

I traced the city's noisy streets, 

And told my cares aloud ; 
But no intelligence could meet 

Among the thoughtless crowd. 
I search'd the temple round, for there 

He oft has blest my sight, 
And half unveil'd, of his loved face 

Disclosed the heavenly light. 
But with these glorious views, no more 

I feast my ravish 'd eyes, 
For veil'd with interposing clouds, 

My eager search he flies. 
Oh, could I in some desert land 

His sacred footsteps trace, 
I'd with a glad devotion kneel, 

And bless the happy place. 
I'd follow him o'er burning sands, 

Or where perpetual snow 
With horrid aspect clothes the ground, 

To find my Lord, I'd go. 
Nor stormy seas should stay my course, 

Nor unfrequented shore, 
Nor craggy Alps, nor desert wastes 

Where hungry lions roar. 
Through ranks of interposing deaths 

To his embrace I'd fly, 
And to enjoy his blissful smiles, 

Would be content to die. 



HENRY GROVE. 1683—1738. 



Henry Grove, a " dissenting" clergyman of great literature and piety, was 
born at Taunton, Somersetshire, 1683. He was early impressed by his 
parents with an ardent love for religion and morality, and at school and at 
the academy ' he acquired a taste for the elegant authors of Greece and Rome, 
which he cultivated through life with unwearied fondness and assiduity, and 
which gave uncommon grace and beauty to his style. At the age of twenty- 
two he entered the ministry, for which he was eminently qualified by his 
piety and learning ; and he became a very popular preacher. On the decease 
of Mr. Warren, the preceptor of the academy at Taunton, Mr. Grove was 
elected to fill his place, and his first publication was an essay drawn up for 
the use of his pupils, entitled, " The Regulation of Diversions," designed to 
call off the attention of youth from the too eager pursuit of pleasure, and to 
infuse into them a thirst for the acquisition of knowledge and virtue. 2 His 

1 "Dissenters" had not the privilege of Oxford and Cambridge Universities 

2 "If I were to pray for a taste which should stand me in stead under every variety of circum- 
stances, and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me through life, and a shield against its 
ills, however things might go amiss, and the world frown upon me, it would be a taste for read- 
ing. I speak of it only as a worldly advantage, and not in the slightest degree as superseding or 
derogating from the higher office and surer and stronger panoply of religious principles— but as a 
taste, an instrument, and a mode of pleasurable gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means 
f gratifying it, and you can hardly fail of making a happy man ; unless, indeed, you put Into hit 



1727-1760.] grove. 425 

next writings for the public were contributions for the Spectator. Numbers 
588, 601, 626, and 635 (the last number) are from his pen. He also pub- 
lished many treatises of a strictly religious character. Of these, " A Discourse 
on Secret Prayer," " The Evidence of our Saviour's Resurrection Considered," 
« Some Thoughts concerning the Proof of a Future State from Reason," and 
"Discourses on the Lord's Supper," and on " Saving Faith," are best known. 

"In all his writings, Mr. Grove, taking the Scripture solely for his guide, 
adhered to the result of his own inquiries ; his mind was biased by no sys- 
tems or creeds, and his theology, therefore, was purely practical, and, as far 
as the fallibility of men will allow in judging of the text, perfectly conforma- 
ble to the tenor of the Gospel." 1 After living a life of great benevolence and 
practical piety, he died on the 27th of February, 1738, in the fifty-fifth year 
of his age. The following extracts from one of his letters to a friend, draw a 
true picture of his own character, in his directions for 

THE TRUE ART OF ENJOYING LIFE. 

It will not be altogether out of character, if I write down a few 
reflections on the art of improving human life, so as to pass it in 
peace and tranquillity, and make it yield the noblest pleasures it is 
capable of affording us. The first rule, and in a manner compre- 
hensive of all the rest, is always to consider human life in its con- 
nection, as a state of trial, with an everlasting existence. How 
does this single thought at once raise and sink the value of every 
thing under the sun? sink it as a part of our worldly portion; 
raise it as a means and opportunity of promoting the glory of the 
great Author of all good, and the happiness, present and future, of 
our fellow-creatures as well as our own ? — In the next place, we 
are to lay down this for a certain maxim, and constantly attend to 
it, that our happiness must arise from our own temper and actions, 
not immedaitely from any external circumstances. These, at best, 
are only considerable, as they supply a larger field to the exercise 
of our virtue, and more leisure for the improvements and enter- 
tainments of the mind : whereas, the chief delights of a reasonable 
being must result from its own operations, and reflections upon 
them as consonant to its nature, and the order it holds in the uni- 
verse. How do I feel myself within ? Am I in my natural state ? 
Do I put my faculties to their right use ? — To require less from 
others than is commonly done, in order to be pleased, and to be 
more studious to please them, not from a meanness ^f spirit, not 
from artful views, but from an unaffected benevolence, is another 
rule of greater importance than is easily imagined ; and more ef- 

hands a most perverse selection of books. You place him in contact with the best society in every 
period of history— with the wisest, the wittiest — with the tenderest, and the purest characters that 
have adorned humanity. You make him a denizen of all nations— a contemporary of all ages. The 
world has been created for him. It is hardly possible but the character should take a higner and bet- 
ter tone from the constant habit of associating in thought with a class of th/.ikers to say the least of 
it, above the average of humanity." From Sir John Herschel's " Discourse on the Study of Natural 
Philosophy." 1 Drake's Essays, vol. iii. p. 210. 

36* 



426 GROVE. [GEORGE II. 

fectually reaches all that is aimed at by self-Jove, without design- 
ing it. To this add, that though we should be impartial, yet not 
severe in the judgment we pass, and the demands we make upon 
ourselves ; watchful against the infirmities and errors too incident 
to human nature, but not supposing that we shall be entirely free 
from them, nor afflicting ourselves beyond measure to find that we 
are not. Such an overstrained severity breaks the force of the 
mind, and hinders its progress towards perfection. In the choice 
of conditions, or making any steps in life, it is a dictate of wisdom 
to prefer reality to appearance, and to follow Providence as our 
guide : to be more indifferent to life, and all things in it, which 
the less we value the more we shall enjoy. And, lastly, to con- 
sider that the happiness of the present state consists more in re- 
pose than pleasure ; and in those pleasures that are pure and 
calm (which are likewise the most lasting) rather than in those 
which violently agitate the passions. Happy are we, when our 
pleasures flow from the regularity of our passions, and even 
course of piety and goodness, an humble confidence in the mercy 
of God, and from the hope of immortality ! Not to be contented 
without a perpetual succession of other pleasures besides these, is 
the way never to know contentment. 

ON NOVELTY. 

One advantage of our inclination for novelty is, that it annihi- 
lates all the boasted distinctions among mankind. Look not up 
with envy to those above thee ! Sounding titles, stately build- 
ings, fine gardens, gilded chariots, rich equipages, what are they ? 
They dazzle every one but the possessor ; to him that is accus- 
tomed to them they are cheap and regardless things ; they supply 
him not with brighter images or more sublime satisfactions, than 
the plain man may have, whose small estate will just enable him 
to support the charge of a simple, unencumbered life. He enters 
heedless into his rooms of state, as you or I do under our poor 
sheds. The noble paintings and costly furniture are lost on him; 
he sees them not ; as how can it be otherwise, when by custom a 
fabric infinitely more grand and finished, that of the universe, 
stands unobserved by the inhabitants, and the everlasting lamps 
of heaven are lighted up in vain, for any notice that mortals take 
of them ? Thanks to indulgent nature, which not only placed her 
children originally upon a level, but still, by the strength of this 
principle, in a great measure preserves it, in spite of all the care 
of man to introduce artificial distinctions. 

To add no more — is not this fondness for novelty, which makes 
us out of conceit with all we already have, a convincing proof of 
a future state ? Either man was made in vain, or this is not the 
only world he was made for : for there cannot be a greater in- 



1727-1760.] tickell. 427 

stance of vanity than that to which man is liable, to be deluded 
from the cradle to the grave with fleeting shadoAvs of happiness. 
His pleasures, and those not considerable neither, die in the pos- 
session, and fresh enjoyments do not rise fast enough to fill up 
half his life with satisfaction. When I see persons sick of them- 
selves any longer than they are called away by something that is 
of force to chain down the present thought : when I see them 
hurry from country to town, and then from the town back again 
into the country, continually shifting postures, and placing life in 
all the different lights they can think of: " Surely," say I to my- 
self, " life is vain, and the man beyond expression stupid or pre- 
judiced, who from the vanity of life cannot gather that he is 
designed for immortality." 

Spectator, No. 626. 



THOMAS TICKELL. 1686—1740. 



Thomas Tickell, the bosom friend of Addison, was born in Bridelrirk, neai 
Carlisle, in Cumberland, in 1686. At the usual age he entered Oxford Uni- 
versity, where he devoted himself to his studies with great industry. He was 
early introduced to Addison, and gained his friendship, which was never for 
a moment violated. Addison, it is said, had the affection of a father for Tick- 
ell, who, in return, loved and venerated that great man with a warmth of 
zeal which no filial affection could exceed. In consequence of this connec- 
tion he made several contributions to the Spectator and Guardian, though his 
papers cannot all now be identified. While negotiations were on foot that 
preceded the peace of Utrecht, 1 he published his poem entitled « The Pros- 
pect of Peace." Though it has not much merit as a poem, it presents some 
noble thoughts on the general subject of peace and the duty of nations to cul- 
tivate it among each other, which, if practised, would make the world much 
better and happier. In 1717, when Addison was made secretary of state, he 
advanced his friend Tickell to the post of under-secretary, a situation which 
he filled with equal advantage to himself and his patron. 

The decease of Addison, 1719, was severely felt and most sincerely la 
mented by Tickell. To the collected works of his great patron, who had on 
his death-bed left him the charge of publishing them, he prefixed an "Elegy," 
in memory of their author, " to whose beauty and pathos," says Dr. Drake, 
" no language can do justice." It is this, indeed, on which his fame as a writer 
chiefly rests ; though his verses on the " Cato" of Addison, and his ballad of 
" Colin and Lucy," have much merit. His promotion and prosperity ceased 
not with the death of Addison. In 1725 he was created secretary to the lords 
justices of Ireland, a situation of dignity and profit, and he held It till his 
death, which took place on the 23d of April, 1740. 

ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON. 8 

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 

1 The treaty of Utrecht was signed in 1713. 

2 This was addjressed to the Earl of "Wa 'wick, Addison's step-son. 



428 TICKELL. [GEORGE II. 

Blame not her silence, "Warwick, but bemoan, 

And judge, oh ! judge my bosom by your own. 

What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 

Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires ■ 

Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 

Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 

Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! 
How silent did his old companions tread, 
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! 
What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire ; 
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir ; 
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ; 
And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd ! 
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
Accept these tears, thou dear, departed friend. 
Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu ; 
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. 
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 
A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine ; 
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan 
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
If e 1 er from me thy loved memorial part, 
May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
Of thee forgetful, if I form a song, 
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue ; 
My grief be doubled from thy image free, 
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. 

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown ; 
Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
What worthies form the hallow'd mould below; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; 
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven ; 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 

in what new region to the just assign'd, 
What new employments please th ; unbodied mind ; 
A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, 
From world to world unwearied does he fly? 
Or curious trace the long, laborious maze 
Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze ? 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below ? 
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
A task well-suited to thy gentle mind r { 



1727-1760.] bentley. 429 

Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend ; 
To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, 
Must still be loved and still deplored by me, 
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight ; 
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care, 
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato 1 there ; 
If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, 
Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious song 
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, 
A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
There taught us how to live ; and (oh ! too high 
The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die. 



RICHARD BENTLEY. 1662—1742 



Richard Bentley, one of the most learned men, and perhaps me greatest 
classical scholar England has produced, was the son of a farmer near Wake- 
field, in Yorkshire, and was born in 1662. He "was educated at Cambridge, 
and became chaplain to Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester. In 1692 he was 
appointed to the lectureship instituted by Boyle, for the defence of the Chris- 
tian religion, and he delivered a series of very able discourses against athe- 
ism, which were highly popular. His next public appearance was in the 
famous controversy with the Hon. Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, relative to 
the genuineness of the Greek Epistles of Phalarus. 2 Most of the wits and 
scholars of that period joined with Boyle against Bentley; but he triumphantly 
established the position that the epistles are spurious. Though professedly a 
controversial work, it embodies a mass of accurate information relative to 
historical facts, antiquities, chronology, and philology, such as, we may safely 
say, has rarely, if ever, been collected in the same space; and shows how 
thoroughly digested and familiar was the vast stock of reading which Bent- 
ley possessed. At the end of the "Dissertation on Phalarus," Bentley denies 
the genuineness of the " Fables" which bear iEsop's name. 

It would be impossible, in this mere sketch of his life,3 to enumerate all his 
subsequent works. They were mostly of a classical character, and from the 
great learning and research which they displayed, established his reputation, 
not in England only, but on the continent, as the first scholar of his age. In 

1 Addison's tragedy of " Cato." 

2 See this controversy spoken of on page 342. 

8 Read— Dr. Monk's Life of Bentley, a most interesting as well as learned piece of biography : ahso 
a life by Hartley Coleridge, in his "Lives of Distinguished Northerns. 



430 EENTLEY. [GEORGE II. 

one labor, however, he signally failed : it was in his edition of the " Paradise 
Lost." Assuming that, from the blindness of Milton, and, consequently, from 
the necessity of his dictating his thoughts to others, many verbal errors must 
have been made in transcribing, he undertook to make " emendations'" with- 
out number, in that immortal work. It proved a most signal failure, and 
showed that, however learned he was in classic lore, he was destitute of true 
poetic taste and feeling, and could not enter into the lofty conceptions and 
sublime flights of the great English bard. One of his " emendations" will 
suffice here. The sublime line, 

"No light, but rather darkness visible," 

Bentley renders, 

" No light, but rather a transpicuous gloom ;" 
thus verifying his favorite maxim, that no man was ever written out of his 
reputation except by himself. 

After a life of great literary labor, and enjoying some of the highest honors 
in the church, this distinguished scholar died on the 14th of July, 1742. 

AUTHORITY OF REASON IN RELIGION. 

We profess ourselves as much concerned, and as truly as [the 
deists] themselves are, for the use and authority of reason in con- 
troversies of faith. We look upon right reason as the native lamp 
of the soul, placed and kindled there by our Creator, to conduct 
us in the whole course of our judgments and actions. True rea- 
son, like its divine Author, never is itself deceived, nor ever de- 
ceives any man. Even revelation itself is not shy nor unwilling 
to ascribe its own first credit and fundamental authority to the test 
and testimony of reason. Sound reason is the touchstone to dis- 
tinguish that pure and genuine gold from baser metals ; revelation 
truly divine, from imposture and enthusiasm : so that the Chris- 
tian religion is so far from declining or fearing the strictest trials 
of reason, that it everywhere appeals to it ; is defended and sup- 
ported by it ; and, indeed, cannot continue, in the apostle's de- 
scription, "pure and undefiled" without it. It is the benefit of 
reason alone, under the Providence and Spirit of God, that we 
ourselves are at this day a reformed orthodox church : that we 
departed from the errors of popery, and that we knew, too, where 
to stop ; neither running into the extravagances of fanaticism, nor 
sliding into the indifferency of libertinism. Whatsoever, there- 
fore, is inconsistent with natural reason, can never be justly im- 
posed as an article of faith. That the same body is in many places 
at once ; that plain bread is not bread ; such things, though they 
be said with never so much pomp and claim to infallibility, we 
have still greater authority to reject them, as being contrary to 
common sense and our natural faculties ; as subverting the foun- 
dations of all faith, even the grounds of their own credit, and all 
the principle* of civil life. 

So far are we from contending with our adversaries about the 
dignity and authority of reason ; but then we differ with them 



1727-1760.] somerville. 431 

about the exercise of it, and the extent of its province. For the 
deists there stop, and set bounds to their faith, where reason, theit 
only guide, does not lead the way further, and walk along before 
them. We, on the contrary, as Moses was shown by divine 
power a true sight of the promised land, though himself could not 
pass over to it, so we think reason may receive from revelation 
some further discoveries and new prospects of things, and be fully 
convinced of the reality of them ; though itself cannot pass on, noi 
travel those regions ; cannot penetrate the fund of those truths, 
nor advance to the utmost bounds of them. For there is certainly 
a wide difference between what is contrary to reason, and what ia 
superior to it and out of its reach. 



WILLIAM SOMERVILLE. 1692—1742. 

This ardent lover and eulogist of field-sports, was born in 1692, and was 
educated at Oxford. After leaving the university, he settled upon his patri- 
monial estate in Warwickshire, and occupied his time partly with the duties 
of a justice of the peace, partly with the active pleasures of the sportsman, 
and partly with the cultivation of his poetical talents. Hospitable, convivial, 
and careless of economy, he became involved in debt, and in the latter part 
of his life, according to the account of his friend Shenstone, the poet, " drank 
himself into pains of the body, in order to get rid of the pains of the mind." 
Thus, most lamentably, was his misery completed, and his end accelerated ; 
and he died in 1742, in the fiftieth year of his age. 

Somerville is best known by his poem, entitled the " Chase," which still 
has considerable popularity. It is written in blank verse, tolerably harmoni- 
ous, and his descriptions, always accurate, from his own practical knowledge 
of his subject, are frequently vivid and beautiful. He has also written an- 
other rural poem, called " Field-Sports," which describes the amusement of 
hawking ; " Hobinol, or Rural Games," a mock heroic ; and many pieces of 
a miscellaneous character. Of the latter, the lines to Addison show much 
good feeling, and just appreciation of the character of that great and good man. 

BEGINNING OF A FOX-HUNT. 

Ere yet the morning peep, 
Or stars retire from the first blush of day, 
With thy far-echoing voice alarm thy pack, 
And rouse thy bold compeers. Then to the copse 
Thick with entangling grass, or prickly furze, 
With silence lead thy many-color'd hounds, 
In all their beauty's pride. See ! how they range 
Dispersed, how busily this way, and that, 
They cross, examining with curious nose 
Each likely haunt. Hark ! on the drag I hear 
Their doubtful notes, preluding to a cry 
More nobly full, and swell'd with every mouth- 
As straggling armies, at the trumpet's voice, 



4S2 SOMERVILLE. [GEORGE IL 

Press to their standard, hither all repair, 
And hurry through the woods ; with hasty step 
Rustling, and full of hope ; now driven on heaps 
They push, they strive ; while from his kennel sneaks 
The conscious villain. See ! he skulks along, 
Sleek at the shepherd's cost, and plump with meals 
Purloin'd. So thrive the wicked here below. 
Though high his brush he bear, though tipt with white 
It gayly shine ; yet ere the sun declined 
Recall the shades of night, the pamper'd rogue 
Shall rue his fate reversed ; and at his heels 
Behold the just avenger, swift to seize 
His forfeit head, and thirsting for his blood. 

And now 
In vain each earth he tries, the doors are barr'd 
Impregnable, nor is the covert safe ; 
He pants for purer air. Hark ! what loud shouts 
Re-echo through the groves ! he breaks away. 
Shrill horns proclaim his flight. Each straggling hound 
Strains o'er the lawn to reach the distant pack. 
'Tis triumph all and joy. Now, my brave youths, 
Now give a loose to the clean generous steed ; 
Flourish the whip, nor spare the galling spur ; 
But in the madness of delight, forget 
Your fears. Far o'er the rocky hills we range, 
And dangerous our course : but in the brave 
True courage never fails. In vain the stream 
In foaming eddies whirls ; in vain the ditch 
Wide-gaping threatens death. The craggy steep, 
Where the poor dizzy shepherd crawls with care, 
And clings to every twig, gives us no pain : 
But down we sweep, as stoops the falcon bold 
To pounce his prey. Then up the opponent hill, 
By the swift motion slung, we mount aloft: 
So ships in winter-seas now sliding sink 
Adown the steepy wave, then toss"d on high 
Ride on the billows, and defy the storm. 

LINES ADDRESSED TO ADDISON. 

Great bard ! how shall my worthless Muse aspire 
To reach your praise, without your sacred fire ? 
When panting virtue her last efforts made, 
You brought your Clio ] to the virgin's aid ; 
Presumptuous Folly blush'd, and Vice withdrew 
To vengeance yielding her abandon'd crew. 
'Tis true, confederate wits their forces join ; 
Parnassus labors in the work divine : 
Yet these we read with too impatient eyes, 
And hunt for you through every dark disguise ; 
In vain your modesty that name conceals, 
Which every thought, which every word, reveals ; 
With like success bright Beauty's Goddess tries 
To veil immortal charms from mortal eyes ; 

l Alluding to the initials, cuo, with which Addison signed all his papers in tat Spectator. 



1727- L760.] swift. 433 

Her graceful port, and her celestial mien. 

To her brave son betray the Cyprian queen ; 

Odors divine perfume her rosy breast, 

She glides along the plain in majesty confess'd. 

Hard was the task, and worthy your great mind, 

To please at once, and to reform mankind : 

Yet, when you write, Truth charms with such address, 

Pleads Virtue's cause with such becoming grace, 

His own fond heart the guilty wretch betrays, 

He yields delighted, and convinced obeys : 

You touch our follies with so nice a skill, 

Nature and habit prompt in vain to ill. 

Nor can it lessen the Spectator's praise, 

That from your friendly hand he wears the bays ; 

His great design all ages shall commend, 

But more his happy choice in such a friend. 

So the fair queen of night the world relieves, 

Nor at the sun's superior honor grieves, 

Proud to reflect the glories she receives. 

Contending nations ancient Homer claim, 
And Mantua glories in her Maro's name ; 
Our happier soil the prize shall yield to none, 
Ardenna's groves shall boast an Addison. 
Ye sylvan powers, and all ye rural gods, 
That guard these peaceful shades and blest «.6odes, 
For your new guest your choicest gifts prepare, 
Exceed his wishes, and prevent his prayer ; 
Grant him, propitious, freedom, health, and peace, 
And as his virtues, let his stores increase. 
His lavish hand no deity shall mourn, 
The pious bard shall make a just return ; 
In lasting verse eternal altars raise, 
And over-pay your bounty with his praise. 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 1667—174.5. 

Of the varied life of this eccentric divine, so numerous and able have been 
the details, that had we room to enter into the consideration of it at length, 
it would be quite an unnecessary work. We will therefore give but a mere 
sketch of it, referring die reader for more full biographies to the works men- 
tioned below. 1 

He was born in Dublin, in 1667, and was educated at Dublin University. 
At the age of twenty-one he obtained the patronage of Sir William Temple, 
under whose roof, at Moor Park, in Surrey, he resided as an amanuensis and 
a companion until the death of his patron in 1698. Here he wrote his cele- 
brated treatise, entitled " The Battle of the Books," against Bentley ; and while 
here he " took orders in the church." Upon the death of Temple, he was in- 

1 Hawkesworth, Sheridan, and Nichols have all prefixed a life of Swift to their edition ol his 
works. But the best edition is that of Sir Walter Scott, with life, 19 vols. 8vo, of which a second 
edition has been published. Read also, a life of the same, in the 3d vol. of "Drake's Essays;" an- 
other in " Johnson's Lives," and a very able article in the 27th vol. of the Edinburgh Review- 
2 E 37 



434 swift. [geokge ri. 

vited by the Earl of Berkeley to Ireland, and after many disappointments he 
obtained the living of Laracor, 1 where, in 1704, he published, anonymously, 
that remarkable work, " The Tale of a Tub." It was designed as a burlesque 
and satire upon the disputes among the Papists, Episcopalians, and Presbyte- 
rians, and for keenness and humor it has, perhaps, never been equalled. In 
1713 he was rewarded with the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin; but the 
return of the Whig party into power, on the accession of the House of Hano- 
ver, destroyed all his hopes of further preferment. For some years after, he 
was employed almost entirely in political and occasional writings, full of viru- 
lence and bitterness against many of the men and things of his age, and 
which are now but little read. In 1724 he became almost an object of idola- 
try to the Irish by publishing a series of letters under the feigned name of 
M. B. Drapier, against one William Wood. This Wood had obtained a patent 
for coining half-pence for the use of Ireland, to the enormous amount of 
£180,000, and Swift, in his "Drapier's Letters," exposed the fraud, and the 
ruinous consequences to the nation, with such power of reason, and sarcasm, 
and invective, that the patent was annulled, and the half-pence withdrawn 
by the government. The following short extract will give an idea of the 
style and humor of these " Letters :" — 

wood's half-pence. 
I am very sensible that such a work as I have undertaken 
might have worthily employed a much better pen : but when a 
house is attempted to be robbed, it often happens that the weakest 
in the family runs first to stop the door, All the assistance I had 
were some informations from an eminent person, whereof I am 
afraid I have spoiled a few, by endeavoring to make them of a 
piece with my own productions ; and the rest I was not able to 
manage. I was in the case of David, who could not move in the 
armor of Saul, and therefore I rather chose to attack this uncir- 
cumcised Philistine (Wood I mean) with a sling and a stone. And 
I may say for Wood's honor, as well as my own, that he resem- 
bles Goliath in many circumstances very applicable to the present 
purpose : for Goliath had a helmet of brass upon his head, and 
he was armed with a coat of mail, and the weight of the coat 
was five thousand shekels of brass ; and he had greaves of brass 
upon his legs, and a target of brass between his shoulders. In 
short he was, like Mr. Wood, all over brass, and he defied the 
armies of the living God. — Goliath's conditions of combat were 
likewise the same with these of Wood : if he prevail against us, 
then shall we be his servants. But if it happens that I prevail 
over him, I renounce the other part of the condition ; he shaD 
never be a servant of mine ; for I do not think him fit to be trusted 
in any honest man's shop. 

1 In the county of Meath, north-west of Dublin. While here, he appointed the reading of prayers 
every Wednesday and Friday. Upon the first Wednesday, after ihe bell had ceased ringing for somp 
time, finding that the congregation consisted only of himself and his clerk, Roger, he began: 
" Dearly beloved Roger, the Scripture moveth you and me in sundry places," &c, and then pro 

eaed reguiurly through the whole service. 



1727-1760.] swift. 435 

In 1726 appeared the most perfect of the larger compositions of Swi't, and 
that by which he will probably be longest remembered — " Gulliver's Travels?' 
It is a production entirely unique in English literature. Its main design is, 
under the form of fictitious travels, to satirize mankind and the institutions of 
civilized countries ; but the scenes and nations which it describes are so won- 
derful and amusing, that the book is as great a favorite with children as with 
those misanthropic spirits who delight in contemplating the imperfections of 
human nature. In the latter part of his life, he published another burlesque 
on the social world, entitled "Polite Conversation," being an almost exact re- 
presentation of the unpremeditated talk of ordinary persons. A still more 
ludicrous and satirical work appeared after his death, under the title of " Di- 
rections to Servants." His most important political tracts were, " The Conduct 
of the Allies," "The Public Spirit of the Whigs," and "A History of the Four 
last Years of Queen Anne." 

In 1736 Swift was seized with a violent fit of giddiness, while writing a 
satirical poem called the "Legion Club," which he never finished. From that 
time he grew worse and worse, till, in 1741, his friends found ' 6 passions so 
violent and ungovernable, his memory so decayed, and his reason so depraved, 
that they were obliged to keep all strangers from him. In 1742, after a week 
of indescribable bodily suffering, he sank into a state of quiet idiocy, in 
which he continued till the 19th of October, 1745, when he gently breathed 
his last. 

As a writer, the prose works of Swift are among the best specimens we 
possess of a thorough English style. " He knew," says Dr. Blair, "beyond 
almost any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language ; 
and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is one of 
the most useful models. But we must not look for much ornament and grace 
in his language. His haughty and morose genius made him despise any em- 
bellishment of this kind, as beneath his dignity. He delivers Iris sentimt ats 
in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one who is sure he is* in the 
right, and is very indifferent whether you are pleased or not. His sentences 
are commonly negligently arranged ; distinctly enough as to sense, but with- 
out any regard to smoothness of sound ; often without much regard to com- 
pactness or elegance." The following selections are given as specimens of 
his best style : — 

COUNTRY HOSPITALITY. 

Those inferior duties of life, which the French tall les petites 
morales, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the 
name of good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the 
general notion of it, to be a sort of artificial good sense, adapted to 
the meanest capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in 
their commerce with each other. Low and little understandings, 
without some rules of this kind, would be perpetually wandering 
into a thousand indecencies and irregularities in behavior ; and in 
their ordinary conversation, fall into the same boisterous familiari- 
ties that one observes among them where intemperance has quite 
taken away the use of their reason. In other instances it is odd 
to consider, that for want of common discretion, the very end of 
good breeding is wholly perverted ; and civility, intended to make 
us easy, is employed m laying chains and fetters upon us, in de- 



436 SWIFT. [GEOKGE II. 

barring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonable de 
sires and inclinations. 

This abuse reigns chiefly in the country, as I found to my vexa- 
tion when I was last there, in a visit I made to a neighbor about 
two miles from my cousin. As toon as I entered the parlor, they 
put me into the great chair that stood close by a huge fire, and 
kept me there by force until I was almost stifled. Then a boy 
came in a great hurry to pull off my boots, which I in vain op- 
posed, urging that I must return soon after dinner. In the mean 
time, the good lady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a 
key into her hand ; the girl returned instantly with a beer-glass 
half full of aqua mirabilis and sirup of gillyflowers. I took as 
much as I had a mind for, but madam vowed I should drink it cff; 
for she was sure it would do me good after coming out of the cold 
air ; and I was forced to obey, which absolutely took away my 
stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to sit at a dis* 
tance from the fire ; but they told me it was as much as my life 
was worth, and sat me with my back just against it. Although 
my appetite was quite gone, I was resolved to force down as much 
as I could, and desired the leg of a pullet. "Indeed, Mr. Bick- 
erstafT," says the lady, " you must eat a wing, to oblige me ;" and 
so put a couple upon my plate. I was persecuted at this rate 
during the whole meal : as often as I called for small beer, the 
master tipped the wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer of 
October. 

Some time after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man, who came 
with me, to get ready the horses ; but it was resolved I should not 
stir that night ; and when I seemed pretty much bent upon going, 
they ordered the stable door to be locked, and the children hid my 
cloak and boots. The next question was, What would I have for 
supper ? I said, I never eat any thing at night ; but was at last, 
in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into 
my head. After three hours, spent chiefly in apologies for my 
entertainment, insinuating to me, " That this was the worst time 
of the year for provisions ; that they were at a great distance from 
any market ; that they were afraid I should be starved ; and that 
they knew they kept me to my loss ;" the lady went, and left me 
to her husband ; for they took special care I should never be alone. 
As soon as her back was turned, the little misses ran backward 
and forward every moment, and constantly as they came in, or 
went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which, in good man- 
ners, I was forced to return with a bow, and "your humble ser- 
vant, pretty miss." Exactly at eight, the mother came up, and 
discovered, by the redness of her face, that supper was not far ofT. 
It was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled 
in proportion I desired at my usual hour to go to my repose, and 



1727-1760.] swift. 437 

was conducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the 
whole train of children. They importuned me to drink something 
before I went to bed ; and, upon my refusing, at last left a bottle 
of stingo, as they call it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in 
the night. 

I was forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the 
dark, because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to dis- 
turb me at the hour I desired to be called. I was now resolved 
to break through all measures to get away; and, after sitting down 
to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neat's tongues, veni- 
son pasty, and stale beer, took leave of the family. But the gen- 
tleman would needs see me part of the way, and carry me a short 
cut through his own ground, which he told me would save half a 
mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me 
dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck by leaping over 
his ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt, when my horse, 
having slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an 
hour to recover him again. 

THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 1 

Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a cer- 
tain spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction 
of infinite numbers of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the 
gates of his palace, like human bones before the cave of some 
giant. The avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes 
and palisadoes, all after the modern way of fortification. After you 
had passed several courts you came to the centre, wherein you 
might behold the constable himself in his own lodgings, which 
had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to sally out upon 
all occasions of prey or defence. In this mansion he had for some 
time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger to his person by 
swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from below : 
when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a wander- 
ing bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass had dis- 
covered itself, and in he went ; where, expatiating a while, he at 
last happened to alight upon one of the outward walls of the spi- 
der's citadel ; which, yielding to the unequal weight, sunk down 
to the very foundation. Thrice he endeavored to force his pas- 
sage, and thrice the centre shook. The spider within, feeling the 
terrible convulsion, supposed at first that nature was approaching 
to her final dissolution ; or else, that Beelzebub, with all his le- 
gions, was come to revenge the death of many thousands of his 
subjects 2 whom his enemy had slain and devoured. However, 

l This is taken from "The Battle of the Books," and had reference to the great contest then 
going on between the advocates of ancient and modern learning. The Bee represents the ancients; 
the Spider the moderns. 

i Beelzebub, in the Hebrew, signifies lord of flies. 

37* 



438 SWIFT. [geouge 1J. 

he at length valiantly resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. 
Meanwhile the hee had acquitted himself of his toils, and, posted 
securely at some distance, was employed in cleansing his wings, 
and disengaging them from the rugged remnants of the cobweb. 
By this time the spider was adventured out, when, beholding the 
chasms, the ruins, and dilapidations of his fortress, he was very 
near at his wits' end ; he stormed and swore like a madman, and 
swelled till he was ready to burst. At length, casting his eye 
upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes from events, (for they 
knew each other by sight,) " A plague split you," said he, " for a 
giddy puppy; is it you, with a vengeance, that have made this 
litter here ? could you not look before you ? do you think I have 
nothing else to do but to mend and repair after you ?" — " Good 
words, friend," said the bee, (having now pruned himself, and 
being disposed to be droll :) " I'll give you my hand and word to 
come near your kennel no more ; I was never in such a con- 
founded piclde since I was born." — " Sirrah," replied the spider, 
" if it were not for breaking an old custom in our family, never to 
stir abroad against an enemy, I should come and teach you better 
manners." — " I pray have patience," said the bee, " or you'll 
spend your substance, and, for aught I see, you may stand in need 
of it all, toward the repair of your house." — " Rogue, rogue," re- 
plied the spider, " yet methinks you should have more respect to 
a person whom all the world allows to be so much your betters." 
— " By my troth," said the bee, " the comparison will amount to a 
very good jest ; and you will do me a favor to let me know the 
reasons that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful a dis- 
pute." At this, the spider, having swelled himself into the size 
and posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true spirit 
of controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and angry ; 
to urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers 
or objections of his opposite ; and fully predetermined in his mind 
against all conviction. 

" Not to disparage myself," said he, " by the comparison with 
such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or 
home, without stock or inheritance ? born to no possession of your 
own, but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your livelihood is a 
universal plunder upon jiature ; a freebooter over fields and gar- 
dens ; and, for the sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily as a 
violet. Whereas I am a domestic animal, furnished with a native 
stock within myself. This large castle (to show my improve- 
ments in the mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and 
the materials extracted altogether out of my own person." 

" I am glad," answered the bee, " to hear you grant at least 
that I am come honestly by my wings and my voice ; for then, 
it seems ? I am obliged to Heaven alone for my flights and ni)r 



1727-1760.] swifi. 439 

music; and Providence would never have bestowec on me two 
such gifts, without designing them for the noblest ends. I visit, 
indeed, all the flowers and blossoms of the field and garden ; but 
whatever I collect thence, enriches myself, without the least injury 
to their beauty, their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your 
skill in architecture and other mathematics, I have little to say : 
in that building of yours there might, for aught I know, have been 
labor and method enough ; but, by woful experience for us both, 
it is too plain the materials are naught ; and I hope you will 
henceforth take warning, and consider duration and matter, as 
well as method and art. You boast, indeed, of being obliged to 
no other creature, but of drawing and spinning out all from your- 
self; that is to say, if we may judge of the liquor in the vessel by 
what issues out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and 
poison in your breast; and, though I would by no means lessen or 
disparage your genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are some- 
what obliged, for an increase of both, to a little foreign assistance. 
Your inherent portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by sweep- 
ings exhaled from below ; and one insect furnishes you with a 
share of poison to destroy another. So that, in short, the question 
comes all to this : whether is the nobler being of the two, that 
which, by a lazy contemplation of four inches round, by an over- 
weening pride, feeding and engendering on itself, turns all into 
excrement and venom, producing nothing at all but flybane and a 
cobweb ; or that which, by a universal range, with long search, 
much study, true judgment, and distinction of things, brings home 
honey and wax ?" 

One of the most amusing of the papers of Swift is entitled " Predictions for 
the year 1708; wherein the month, and day of the month are set down, the 
persons named, and the great actions and events of next year particularly re- 
lated, as they will come to pass. Written to prevent the people of England 
from being further imposed on by vulgar almanac-makers. By Isaac Bick- 
erstaff, Esq." The chief object of this was to hold up to deserved ridi- 
cule one John Partridge, a very celebrated almanac-maker of those times, 
who pretended to predict the events of each ensuing year ; and it is astonish- 
ing what confidence the public placed in his prognostications. The predic- 
tion of " Isaac Bickerstarf," relative to the great astrologer, is as follows : — 

partridge's death foretold. 

My first prediction is but a trifle, yet I will mention it, to show 
how ignorant those sottish pretenders to astrology are in their 
own concerns : it relates to Partridge the almanac-maker ; I have 
consulted the star of his nativity by my own rules, and find he 
will infallibly die upon the 29th of March next, about eleven at 
night, of a raging fever ; therefore I advise him to consider of it, 
and settle his affairs in time. 

This was followed up by « An Answer to Bickerstarf," and another pam 



410 SWIFT. [GEORGE II. 

phlet called « The Accomplishment of the First of Mr. Bickerstarf 's Predic 
tions, being an Account of the LWth of Mr. Partridge, the Almanac-maker, 
upon the 29th instant, in a Letter to a Person of Honor." both written by 
Swift, with his usual exquisite humor. The following is the latter piece : — 

partridge's death realized. 

My Lord, — In obedience to your lordship's commands, as well 
as to satisfy my own curiosity, I have for some days past inquired 
constantly after Partridge the almanac-maker, of whom it was fore- 
told in Mr. BickerstafT s predictions, published about a month ago, 
that he should die the 29th instant about eleven at night, of a 
raging fever. I had some sort of knowledge of him, when I was 
employed in the revenue, because he used every year to present 
me with his almanac, as he did other gentlemen, upon the score of 
some little gratuity we gave him. I saw him accidentally once or 
twice about ten days before he died, and observed he began very 
much to droop and languish, though I hear his friends did not 
seem to apprehend him in any danger. About two or three days 
ago he grew ill, was confined first to his chamber, and in a few 
hours after to his bed, where Dr. Case and Mrs. Kirleus 1 were sent 
for to visit, and to prescribe to him. Upon this intelligence, I sent 
thrice every day one servant or other to inquire after his health ; 
and yesterday, about four in the afternoon, word was brought me, 
that he was past hopes : upon which I prevailed with myself to 
go and see him, partly out of commiseration, and, I confess, partly 
out of curiosity. He knew me very well, seemed surprised at 
my condescension, and made me compliments upon it, as well as 
he could in the condition he was. The people about him said, he 
had been for some time delirious ; but when I saw him, he had 
his understanding as well as ever I knew, and spoke strong and 
hearty, without any seeming uneasiness or constraint. After I 
had told him how sorry I was to see him in those melancholy cir- 
cumstances, and said some other civilities, suitable to the occasion, 
[ desired him to tell me freely and ingenuously, whether the pre- 
dictions Mr. BickerstafT had published relating to his death, had 
not too much affected and worked on his imagination. He con- 
fessed, he had often had it in his head, but never with much ap- 
prehension, till about a fortnight before ; since which time it had 
the perpetual possession of his mind and thoughts, and he did 
verily believe was the true natural cause of his present distemper: 
for. said he, I am thoroughly persuaded, and I think I have very 
good reasons that Mr. BickerstafT spoke altogether by guess, and 
knew no more what will happen this year, than I did myself. I 
told him his discourse surprised me ; and I would be glad he were 
in a ami-" of health to be able to tell me, what reason he had to be 

1 Two famous quacks of that day. 



1727 -1760.] swift. 441 

convinced of Mr. Bickerstaff's ignorance. He replied, I am a 
poor ignorant fellow, bred to a mean trade, yet I have sense 
enough to know, that all pretences of foretelling by astrology are 
deceits, for this manifest reason, because the wise and the learned, 
who can only judge whether there be any truth in this science, 
do all unanimously agree to laugh at and despise it ; and none but 
the poor ignorant vulgar give it any credit, and that only upon the 
word of such silly wretches as I and my fellows, who can hardly 
write or read. I then asked him why he had not calculated his 
own nativity, to see whether it agreed with Bickerstaff's predic- 
tion ? At which he shook his head, and said, Oh ! sir, this is no 
time for jesting, but for repenting those fooleries, as I do now from 
the very bottom of my heart. By what I can gather from you, 
said I, the observations and predictions you printed with your al- 
manacs, were mere impositions on the people. He replied, If it 
were otherwise, I should have the less to answer for. We have 
a common form for all those things ; as to foretelling the weather, 
we never meddle with that, but leave it to the printer, who takes 
it out of any old almanac, as he thinks fit ; the rest was my own 
invention to make my almanac sell, having a wife to maintain, and 
no other way to get my bread ; for mending old shoes is a poor 
livelihood ; and (added he, sighing) I wish I may not have done 
more mischief by my physic than my astrology ; though 1 had 
some good receipts from my grandmother, and my own composi- 
tions were such, as I thought, could at least do no hurt. 

I had some other discourse with him, which now I cannot call 
to mind ; and I fear I have already tired your lordship. I shall 
only add one circumstance, that on his death-bed he declared him- 
self a nonconformist, and had a fanatic preacher to be his spiritual 
guide. After half an hour's conversation I took my leave, being 
almost stifled by the closeness of the room. I imagined he could 
not hold out long, and therefore withdrew to a little coffee-house 
hard by, leaving a servant at the house with orders to come im- 
mediately, and tell me, as near as he could, the minute when Par- 
tridge should expire, which was not above two hours after ; when, 
looking upon my watch, I found it to be above five minutes after 
seven : by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff was mistaken al- 
most four hours in his calculation. In the other circumstances he 
was exact enough. But whether he hath not been the cause of 
this poor man's death, as well as the predictor, may be very rea- 
sonably disputed. However, it must be confessed, the matter is 
odd enough, whether we should endeavor to account for it by 
chance, or the effect of imagination : for my own part, though I 
believe no man hath less faith in these matters, yet I shall wait 
with some impatience, and not without some expectation, the ful- 
filling of Mr. Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Cardinal de 



442 SWIFT. [GEORGE II. 

Noailles is to die upon the fourth of April, and if that should be 
verified as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should 
be wholly surprised, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the 
accomplishment of all the rest. 

It is amusing to think what a large number of persons at the time actually 
believed the accomplishment had taken place in all respects according to the 
relation. The wits of the time, too, among whom were Steele and Addison, 
supported Swift, and uniformly affirmed that Partridge had died on die day 
and hour predicted. The distress and vexation of Partridge himself were 
beyond all measure ridiculous, and he absolutely had the folly to insert the 
following advertisement at the close of his next year's almanac : — 

" Whereas it has been industriously given out by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., and 
others, to prevent the sale of this year's almanac, that John Partridge is dead : 
this may inform all his loving countrymen, that he is still living, in health ; 
and they are knaves that reported it otherwise." * 

The most interesting account, however, of the singularly comic consequences 
•f this prediction was drawn up by the Rev. Dr. Yalden, Mr. Partridge's neigh- 
bor, of whom, as connected with this humorous affair, I will give a short ac- 
count, succeeding Swift, though it be not in exact chronological order. 

Though Swift wrote much that ranks under poetry, yet he had none of the 
characteristics of a true poet — nothing of the sublime or the tender ; nothing, 
in short, that reaches or affects the heart. " It could scarcely be expected," 
says a critic, " that an irreligious divine, a heartless politician, and a selfish 
lover, could possess the elements of true poetry ; and, therefore, Swift may be 
considered rather as a rhymer than a poet." This is true ; as he himself says 
in the " Verses on his own Death:" 

" The Dean was famous in his time, 
And had a kind of knack at rhyme " 

This " knack" he had in a very eminent degree — the " knack" of writing 
easy, natural rhymes — of using just the very words in verse that any one 
would select as the best in prose. In proof of which, take the following se- 
lection : — 

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 

In ancient times, as story tells, 
The saints would often leave their cells, 
And stroll about, but hide their quality. 
To try good people's hospitality. 

It happen'd on a winter night, 
As authors of the legend write, 
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, 
Taking their tour in masquerade, 
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went 
To a small village down in Kent : 
Where, in the strollers' canting strain 
They begg'd from door to door in vain ; 
Tried every tone might pity win, 
But not a soul would let them in. 

Our wandering saints, in wpful state, 
Treated at this ungodly rate, 

1 Drake's Essays, vol. i. p. 64. 



1727-1760.] swtft. 443 

Having through all the village pass'd, 
To a small cottage came at last ! 
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, 
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon 5 
Who kindly did these saints invite 
In his poor hut to pass the night ; 
And then the hospitable sire 
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire ; 
While he from out the chimney took 
A flitch of bacon off the hook, 
And freely from the fattest side 
Cut out large slices to be fried ; 
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, 
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, 
And saw it fairly twice go round ; 
Yet (what is wonderful) they found 
'Twas still replenish'd to the top, 
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. 
The good old couple were amazed, 
And often on each other gazed ; 
For both were frighten'd to the heart, 
And just began to cry, — What ar't ! 
Then softly turn'd aside to view 
Whether the lights were burning blue. 
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, 
Told them their calling and their errand : 
Good folks, you need not be afraid, 
We are but saints, the hermits said ; 
No hurt shall come to you or yours : 
But for that pack of churlish boors, 
Not fit to live on Christian ground, 
They and their houses shall be drown'd ; 
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, 
And grow a church before your eyes. 

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft 
The roof began to mount aloft ; 
Aloft rose every beam and rafter ; 
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. 

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher ; 
Became a steeple with a spire. 

The kettle to the top was hoist, 
And there stood fastened to a joist, 
But with the upside down, to show 
Its inclination for below : 
In vain ; for a superior force, 
Applied at bottom, stops its course : 
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 

A wooden Jack, which had almost 
Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
A sudden alteration feels, 
Increased by new intestine wheels ; 
And, what exalts the wonder more, 
The number made the motion slower; 



444 SWIFT. [GEORGE VL 

The flier, though 't had leaden feet, 
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't ; 
But, slacken'd by some secret power, 
Now hardly moves an inch an hour. 
The jack and chimney, near allied, 
Had never left each other's side : 
The chimney to a steeple grown, 
The jack would not be left alone ; 
But, up against the steeple rear'd, 
Became a clock, and still adhered ; 
And still its love to household cares, 
By a shrill voice at noon, declares ; 
Warning the cook-maid not to burn 
That roast-meat which it cannot turn. 
The groaning-chair began to crawl, 
Like a huge snail, along the wall ; 
There stuck aloft in public view, 
And, with small change, a pulpit grew. 

The porringers, that in a row 
Hung high, and made a glittering show, 
To a less noble substance changed, 
Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 

The ballads, pasted on the wall, 
Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, 
The Little Children in the Wood, 
Now seem'd to look abundance better, 
Improved in picture, size, and letter ; 
And, high in order placed, describe 
The heraldry of every tribe. 1 

A bedstead of the antique mode, 
Compact of timber many a load, 
Such as our ancestors did use, 
Was metamorphosed into pews ; 
Which still their ancient nature keep, 
By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 

The cottage by such feats as these 
Grown to a church by just degrees, 
The hermits then desired their host 
To ask for what he fancied most. 
Philemon, having paused a while, 
Return'd them thanks in homely style : 
Then said, My house is grown so fine, 
Methinks I still would call it mine ; 
I'm old, and fain would live at ease ; 
Make me the parson, if you please. 
He spoke, and presently he feels 
His grazier's coat fall down his heels ; 
He sees, yet hardly can believe, 
About each arm a pudding-sleeve ; 
His waistcoat to a cassock grew, 
And both assumed a sable hue ; 

i The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to 
hem by Jacob. 



17527-1760.] swift. 445 

But, being old, continued just 

As thread-bare, and as full of dust. 

His talk was now of tithes and dues : 

He smoked his pipe, and read the news; 

Knew how to preach old sermons next, 

Vamp'd in the preface and the text; 

At christenings well could act his part, 

And had the service all by heart ; 

Against dissenters would repine, 

And stood up firm for right divine ; 

Found his head filfd with many a system: 

But classic authors, — he ne'er miss'd 'em. 

Thus having furbish'd up a parson, 
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. 
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen 
Good pinners edged with colberteen; 
Her petticoat, transform'd apace, 
Became black satin flounced with lace. 
Plain Goody would no longer down : 
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. 
Philemon was in great surprise, 
And hardly could believe his eyes, 
Amazed to see her look so prim ; 
And she admired as much at him. 

Thus happy in their change of life 
Were several years this man and wife ; 
When on a day, which proved their last, 
Discoursing o'er old stories past, 
They went by chance, amidst their talk, 
To the churchyard, to take a walk; 
When Baucis hastily cried out, 
My dear, I see your forehead sprout! 
Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us$ 
I hope you don't believe me jealous! 
But yet, methinks, I feel it true ; 
And really yours is budding too — 
Nay, — now I cannot stir my foot ; 
It feels as if 'twere taking root. 

Description would but tire my muse ; 
In short, they both were turn'd to yews. 

Old Goodman Dobson of the green 
Remembers he the trees has seen ; 
He'll talk of them from noon till night, 
And goes with folks to show the sight: 
On Sundays, after evening-prayer, 
He gathers all the parish there ; 
Points out the place of either yew , 
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew ; 
Till once a parson of our town, 
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 
At which 'tis hard to be believed 
How much the other tree was grieved, 
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted j 
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. 
38 



446 YALDEN. [GEORGE II. 



THOMAS YALDEN. 1671—1736. 

Thomas Yai/dejt was born in the city of Exeter, in 1671, and in 1690 was 
admitted in Magdalen College, Oxford. His first public appearance as a poet 
was in an "Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," published in 1693, which was fol- 
lowed by several other poems. Having entered the ministry, he succeeded At- 
terbury, in 1698, as lecturer at Bridewell Hospital, and in 1707 received the 
degree of Doctor of Divinity. Having received various preferments in the 
church, he died July 16, 1736; having to the end of his life, as Dr. Johnson 
remarks, « retained the friendship and frequented the conversation of a very 
numerous and splendid set of acquaintances." 

Yalden's poetry may be found in the collections of Johnson and Chalmers, 
but it has very little rneri^. As a prose writer, however, he has great humor, 
being the author of the paper entitled " 'Squire Bickerstaff detected ; or the 
Astrological Impostor convicted, by John Partridge, Student in Physic and 
Astrology," which he drew up on Partridge's application, and which that per- 
son is said to have printed and published without perceiving the joke. 

JOHN PARTRIDGE'S DEFENCE. 

It is hard, my dear countrymen of these united nations, it is 
very hard, that a Briton born, a protestant astrologer, a man of 
revolution principles, an assertor of the liberty and property of the 
people, should cry out in vain for justice against a Frenchman, a 
papist, and an illiterate pretender to science, that would blast my 
reputation, most inhumanly bury me alive, and defraud my native 
country of those services, which, in my double capacity, I daily 
offer the public. 

It was towards the conclusion of the year 1707, when an impu- 
dent pamphlet crept into the world, intituled, Predictions, etc., by 
Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq. Amongst the many arrogant assertions 
laid down by that lying spirit of divination, he was pleased to 
pitch on the Cardinal de Noailles and myself, among many other 
eminent and illustrious persons that were to die within the com- 
pass of the ensuing year ; and peremptorily fixes the month, day, 
and hour of our deaths. This, I think, is sporting with great men, 
and public spirits, to the scandal of religion and reproach of 
power ; and if sovereign princes and astrologers must make diver- 
sion for the vulgar why then farewell, say I, to all govern- 
ments, ecclesiastical and civil. But, I thank my better stars, 1 
am alive to confront this false and audacious predictor, and to 
make him rue the hour he ever affronted a man of science and 
resentment : and I shall here present the public with a faithful 
narrative of the ungenerous treatment and hard usage I have re- 
ceived from the virulent papers and malicious practices of this 
pretended astrologer. 

The 28th of March, a. d. 1708, being the night this sham- 
prophet had so impudently fixed for my last, which made little 
impression on myself; but I cannot answer for my whole family, 



1727-1760.] yalden. 447 

for my wife, with a concern more than usual, prevailed on me to 
take somewhat to sweat for a cold, and between the hours of eight 
and nine, to go to bed. The maid, as she was warming my bed, 
with a curiosity natural to young wenches, runs to the window, 
and asks of one passing the street, whom the bell tolled for ? Dr. 
Partridge, says he, the famous almanac-maker, who died suddenly 
this evening : the poor girl, provoked, told him, he lied like a 
rascal; the ofcher very sedately replied, the sexton had so in- 
formed him, and if false, he was to blame for imposing upon a 
stranger. Sue asked a second, and a third, as they passed, and 
every one was in the same tone. Now, I do not say these are 
accomplices to a certain astrological 'squire, and that one Bicker- 
staff might be sauntering thereabouts ; because I will assert no- 
thing here but what I dare attest, for plain matter of fact. My 
wife, at this, fell into a violent disorder ; and I must own I was a 
little discomposed at the oddness of the accident. In the mean 
time one knocks at my door ; Betty runs down, and opening, finds 
a sober grave person, who modestly inquires, if this was Dr. Par- 
tridge's ? She taking him for some cautious city patient that came 
at that time for privacy, shows him into the dining-room. As 
soon as I could compose myself, I went to him, and was surprised 
to find my gentleman mounted on a table with a two-foot rule in 
his hand, measuring my walls, and taking the dimensions of the 
room. "Pray, sir," says I, "not to interrupt you, have you any 
business with me ?" " Only, sir," replies he, " order the girl to 
bring me a better light, for this is but a very dim one." " Sir," 
says I, " my name is Partridge." " Oh ! the doctor's brother, be- 
like," cries he ; " the stair-case, I believe, and these two apart- 
ments hung in close mourning, will be sufficient, and only a strip 
of bays round the other rooms. The doctor must needs die rich, 
he had great dealings in his way for many years : if he had no 
family-coat, you had as good use the escutcheons of the company: 
they are as showish, and will look as magnificent, as if he was 
descended from the blood-royal." With that I assumed a greater 
air of authority, and demanded who employed him, or how he 
came there ? " Why, I was sent, sir, by the company of under- 
takers," says he, " and they were employed by the honest gen- 
tleman, who is executor to the good doctor departed : and our 
rascally porter, I believe, is fallen fast asleep with the black cloth 
and sconces, or he had been here, and we might have been tack- 
ing up by this time." " Sir," says I, " pray be advised by a 
friend, and make the best of your speed out of my doors, for I 
hear my wife's voice, (which, by the by, is pretty distinguishable,) 
and in that corner of the room stands a good cudgel, which some 
body has felt before now ; if that light in her hands, and she know 



448 YALDEN. [GEORGE II. 

the business you come about, without consulting the stars, I can 
assure you it will be employed very much to the detriment of 
your person." " Sir," cries he, bowing with great civility, " I 
perceive extreme grief for the loss of the doctor disorders you a 
little at present, but early in the morning I will wait on you with 
all necessary materials." Now I mention no Mr. BickerstafT; nor 
do I say that a certain star-gazing 'squire has been playing my 
executor before his time ; but I leave the world to *judge, and he 
that puts things and things fairly together, will not be much wide 
of the mark. 

Well, once more I got my doors closed, and prepared for bed, 
in hopes of a little repose after so many ruffling adventures ; just 
as I was putting out my light in order to it, another bounces as 
hard as he can knock ; I open the window, and ask who is there, 
and what he wants ? "I am Ned the sexton," replies he, "and come 
to know whether the doctor left any orders for a funeral sermon, 
and where he is to be laid, and whether his grave is to be plain 
or bricked ?" " Why, sirrah," says I, " you know me well 
enough ; you know I am not dead, and how dare you affront me 
after this manner?" " Alack-a-day, sir," replies the fellow, 
" why it is in print, and the whole town knows you are dead ; 
why, there is Mr. White the joiner, is but fitting screws to your 
coffin, he will be here with it in an instant; he was afraid you 
would have wanted it before this time." " Sirrah, sirrah," says 
I, " you shall know to-morrow to your cost, that I am alive, and 
alive like to be." " W T hy, it is strange, sir," says he, " you 
should make such a secret of your death to us that are your 
neighbors ; it looks as if you had a design to defraud the church 
of its dues ; and let me tell you, for one that has lived so long by 
the heavens, that is unhandsomely done." " Hist, hist," says 
another rogue that stood by him ; " away, doctor, into your flannel 
gear as fast as you can, for here is a whole pack of dismals com- 
ing to you with their black equipage, and how indecent will it 
Jook for you to stand frightening folks at your window, when you 
should have been in your coffin these three hours ?" In short, 
what with undertakers, embalmers, joiners, sextons, and your 
viie elegy-hawkers upon a late practitioner in physic and as- 
trology, I got not one wink of sleep that night, nor scarce a 
moment's rest ever since. Now I doubt not, but this villanous 
'squire has the impudence to assert that these are entirely stran- 
gers to him ; he, good man, knows nothing of the matter, and 
nonest Isaac BickerstafT, I warrant you, is more a man of honor 
than to be an accomplice with a pack of rascals, that walk the 
sireets on nights, and disturb good people in their beds ; but he 
i? out, if he thinks the whole world is blind ; for there is one John 



1727 1760.] talden. 449 

Partridge can smell a knave as far as Grub street, — although he 
lies in the most exalted garret, and writes himself 'squire : — but 
I will keep my temper, and proceed in the narration. 

I could, not stir out of doors for the space of three months after 
this, but presently one comes up to me in the street; "Mr. Par- 
tridge, that coffin you was last buried in I have not been yet pa.d 
for." " Doctor," cries another dog, " how do you think people 
can live by making of graves for nothing ? next time you die, you 
may even toll out the bell yourself, for Ned." A third rogue tips 
me by the elbow, and wonders how I have the conscience to sneak 
abroad without paying my funeral expenses. " Bless me !" says 
one, " I durst have sworn that was honest Dr. Partridge, my old 
friend ; but poor man, he is gone." " I beg your pardon," says 
another, " you look so like my old acquaintance that I used to 
consult on some private occasions ; but, alack, he is gone the way 
of all flesh." " Look, look, look," cries a third, after a competent 
space of staring at me, "would not one think our neighbor the al- 
manac-maker was crept out of his grave to take the other peep at 
the stars in this world, and show how much he is improved in 
fortune-telling by having taken a journey to the other?" 

Nay, the very reader of our parish, a good, sober, discreet per- 
son, has sent two or three times for me to come and be buried 
decently, or send him sufficient reasons to the contrary, or, if I 
have been interred in any other parish, to produce my certificate, 
as the act requires. My poor wife is almost run distracted with 
being called widow Partridge, when she knows it is false ; and 
once a term she is cited into the court to take out letters of ad- 
ministration. But the greatest grievance is, a paltry quack, that 
takes up my calling just under my nose, and in his printed direc- 
tions with N. B. 3EF° says, he lives in the house of the late inge- 
nious Mr. John Partridge, an eminent practitioner in leather, physic, 
and astrology. 

But to show how far the wicked spirit of envy, malice, and re- 
sentment can hurry some men, my nameless old persecutor had pro- 
vided me a monument at the stone-cutters, and would have erected 
it in the parish church; and this piece of notorious and expensive 
villany had actually succeeded, if I had not used my utmost in- 
terest with the vestry, where it was carried at last but by two 
voices, that I am alive. That stratagem failing, out comes a long 
sable elegy, bedecked with hour-glasses, mattocks, sculls, spades, 
and skeletons, with an epitaph as confidently written to abuse me, 
and my profession, as if I had been under ground these twenty years. 

And, after such barbarous treatment as this, can the world 
blame me, when I ask what is become of the freedom of an Eng- 
lishman ? and where is the liberty and property that my old glo 
rious friend came over to assert? We have driven popery out of 
2 F 38* 



450 POPE. [GEORGE II. 

the nation, and sent slavery to foreign climes. The arts only re- 
main in bondage, when a man of science and character shall be 
openly insulted in the midst of the many useful services he is 
daily paying the public. Was it ever heard, even in Turkey or 
Algiers, that a state-astrologer was bantered out of his life by an 
ignorant impostor, or bawled out of the world by a pack of villa- 
nous, deep-mouthed hawkers ? Though I print almanacs, and 
publish advertisements ; though I produce certificates under the 
ministers and churchwardens' hands that I am alive, and attest 
the same on oath at quarter-sessions, out comes a full and true re- 
lation of the death and interment of John Partridge ; truth is borne 
down, attestations neglected, the testimony of sober persons de- 
spised, and a man is looked upon by his neighbors as if he had 
been seven years dead, and is buried alive in the midst of his 
friends and acquaintance. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 1688—1744. 

This great poet, " to whom," says Warton, " English poesy and the English 
language are everlastingly indebted," was born in London, on the 22d of May, 
1688. His father was a linen-draper, who had acquired a considerable for- 
tune by trade. Being of a feeble frame and delicate constitution, his early 
education was chiefly domestic. At the age of twelve, having made con- 
siderable progress in the Greek and Latin languages, he resolved to pursue 
his own plan of study ; and his reading, of which he was excessively fond, 
became uncommonly extensive and various. At a very early period he mani- 
fested the greatest fondness for poetry: as he says of himself, 
I lisp'd in numbers, and the numbers came. 
This taste was in a measure formed from the perusal of Ogilby's Homer, 
when only ten years of age. Before he was twelve, he wrote his " Ode on 
Solitude,'' remarkable for the precocity of sentiment it exhibits, and for that 
delicacy of language and harmony of versification, for which he afterwards 
became so eminent. At the age of sixteen, he wrote his " Pastorals," the prin- 
cipal merit of which consists in their correct and musical versification, with a 
preliminary "Discourse on Pastoral Poetry," "which," says Warton, "is a 
more extraordinary production than the Pastorals that follow it." At the age 
of eighteen he produced the " Messiah," a sacred eclogue in imitation of Vir- 
gil's " Pollio." In 1709, before he had reached the age of twenty-one, he 
finished his " Essay on Criticism." 

In 1712 he published that remarkable heroi-comic poem, "The Rape of the 
Lock," in which he has exhibited, more than in any other of his productions, 
the highest faculty of the poet, — the creative. 1 To this succeeded "The Tem- 

1 "The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; 

And, as imagination bodies forth 

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 

A local habitation and a name." 

Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V. Scene I. 



1727-1760.] pope. 451 

pie of Fame," in imitation of Chaucer's " House of Fame,"' " "Windsor Forest, " 
a loco-descriptive poem, and " Eloisa to Abelard," the most popular, perhaps, 
of any of his productions. But all these poems, together with his Satires and 
Epistles, added but very little to his fortune. Accordingly, at the age of 
twenty-five, he issued proposals for the Translation of the Iliad, by subscrip- 
tion. The work was accomplished in five years, and while the profits were 
euch as to gratify his utmost expectations, 1 the great and signal merits of the 
translation received the warmest eulogiums from the literary world. In a few 
years after, in conjunction withFenton and Broome, he translated the Odyssey. 
The fame which Pope acquired by these writings drew upon him the 
attacks of the envious; 2 and a host of critics, individually insignificant, but 
troublesome from their numbers, continued to annoy him. To retaliate, he 
published, in 1728, " The Dunciad," a work " which fell among his opponents 
like an exterminating thunderbolt." But while it has displayed the tempera 
ment of the author in no very enviable light, it has perpetuated the memory 
of many worthless scribblers, who otherwise would have sunk into oblivion 
In 1733 he published his celebrated didactic poem, the " Essay on Man." No 
sooner did it appear than it was assailed by his enemies, and others, on the 
ground that it was full of skeptical or infidel tendencies. From this charge 
it was ably defended by the learned Dr. Warburton, and has since been most 
triumphantly vindicated in the preliminary discourse of Mr. Roscoe. 3 After 
the publication of the " Essay on Man" he continued to compose occasional 
pieces, and planned many admirable works : among the latter was " A His- 
tory of the Rise and Progress of English Poetry." But he never lived to entej 
upon the work, for an asthmatic affection, to which he had long been subject, 
terminated, in 1744, in a dropsy of the chest, and he expired on the 30th of 
May of that year. 4 

• " What rank," says Dr. Drake, " should be assigned to Pope in a classifica- 
tion of our English poets, has been a subject of frequent inquiry. It is evi- 
dent, that by far the greater part of his original productions consists of ethic 
and satiric poetry; and by those who estimate mere moral sentiment, or the 
exposure, in splendid versification, of fashionable vice or folly, as the highest 
province of tire art, he must be considered as the first of bards. If, however, 
sublimity, imagination, and pathos be, as they assuredly are, the noblest efforts 
of the creative powers, and the most difficult of attainment, Pope will be 
found to have had some superiors, and several rivals. "With Spenser, Shaks 
peare, and Milton, he cannot, in those essential qualities, enter into competi 
tion ; and when compared with Dryden, Young, and Thomson, the mind hesi 
tates in the allotment of superiority." 5 

1 He cleared the sum of five thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. 

2 "Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy ?"— Provn cm 
xxvii. 4. 

3 See Roscoe's edition of Pope, 10 vols. London, one of the choicest contributions to English litera- 
ture of the present century. Read, also, that elegant and interesting piece of criticism, "Warton's 
"Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope," a work of which it has been justly said that, "how- 
ever often perused, it affords fresh delight, and may be considered as one of the books best adapted 
to excite a love of literature." 

4 In person, Pope was short and deformed, of great weakness and delicacy of body, and had, 
through life, suffered from ill health. Warton remarks, that "his bodily make was of use to him as 
a writer," quoting the following passage from Lord Bacon's Essays: "It is good to consider de- 
formity not as a sigr., which is more deeeivable; but as a cause, which seldom faileth of the effect. 
Whosoever hath any thing fixed in his person that doth induce contempt, hath also a perpetu°J spur 
In himself to rescue and deliver himself from scorn." 

6 Read an admirable " Estimate of the Poetical Character and Writings of Pope," prefixo** *« the 
becond volume of Roscoe s tdition. 



452 POPE. [GEORGE II. 

Warton, in the dedication of his elegant « Essay on the "Writings and Ge- 
nius of Pope," after making four classes of the various English poets, remarks: 
u In which of these classes Pope deserves to be placed, the following work is 
intended to determine ;" and he closes his second volume, thus : K Where, then, 
according to the question proposed at the beginning of this Essay, shall we 
;ustly be authorized to place our admired Pope ? Not, assuredly, in the same 
rank with Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton; however justly we may applaud 
the ' Eloisa,' and the ' Rape of the Lock ;' but, considering the correctness, 
elegance, and utility of his works, the weight of sentiment, and the knowledge 
of man they contain, we may venture to assign him a place next to Milton, 
and just above Dryden. 1 The preference here given to Pc$)e, above other 
modern English poets, it must be remembered, is founded on the excellencies 
of his works in general, and taken altogether ; for there are parts and passages 
in other modern authors, in Young and in Thomson, for instance, equal to 
any of Pope ; and he has written nothing in a strain so truly sublime as the 
<Bard : of Gray."* 

MESSIAH. 

JL Sacred Eclogue, in imitation of Virgil's Pollio? 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! 4 begin the song: 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus 5 and the Aonian maids, 6 
Delight no more — O Thou my voice inspire 
Who touclrd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son ! 
From Jesse's root 7 behold a branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: 
The Ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descend the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens! 8 from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 
The sick 9 and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; 
Returning Justice 10 lift aloft her scale ; 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 

1 He means next to that first class, which includes Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton, naming these 
In a chronological order, and not in the order of their merits. 

2 And what has he written equal to the "Elegy," or the "Progress of Poesy," of Gray* 

3 Pollio was a Roman senator in the time of Augustus, and celebrated not only as a general, but as 
8 patron of letters and the fine arts. Virgil addressed to him his fourth Eclogue at a time (B. C. 40) 
when Augustus and Antony had ratified a league of peace, and thus, as it was thought, established 
the tranquillity of the empire, as in the times of the " golden age." In this Eclogue Virgil is most 
eloquent in the praise of peace, and in some of his figures and expressions is thought to have imi- 
tated the prophecies of Isaiah, which, probably, he had read in the Greek Septuagint. But however 
th.s may be as regards Virgil, Roscoe well remarks of this production of Pope, that "the idea of 
uniting the sacred prophecies and grand imagery of Isaiah, with the mysterious visions and pomp 
of numbers displayed in the Pollio, thereby combining both sacred and heathen mythology In pre- 
dicting the coming of the Messiah, is one of the happiest subjects for producing emotions of subli- 
mity that ever occurred to the mind of a poet." 

4 Jerusalem. 5 A mountain in Thessaly, sacred to the Muses. 6 Aonian maids— the Muses. 
. 7 laa. iu. I. 8 Isa. xlv. 8. 9 Isa. xxv. 4. 10 Isa. ix. 7. 



1727-1760.] pope. 453 

Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
O spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring : 
See lofty Lebanon 1 his head advance, 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skits! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers j 
Prepare the way ! 2 A God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ] 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise 2 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way. 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold ! 
Hear him, ye deaf; 3 and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear : 
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; 
From every face he wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd 4 tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
By day o*ersees them, and by night protects ; 
The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms : 
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
The promised 5 father of the future age. 
No more shall nation 6 against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 7 
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
The swain in barren deserts 8 with surprise 
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 

1 Isa. xxxv. 2. 2 isa. xl.. 3, 4. 3 isa. xlii. 18; xxxv. 5, 6. 4 Isa. xi. 11. 

6 Isa. ix. 6. 6 isa. ii. 4. I Isa. lxv. 21, 22. isa. xxxv I, 7 



454 POPE. [GEORGE n, 

Waste sandy valleys, 1 once perplex'd with thorn, 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn : 

To leafless shrubs the flowering palm succeed, 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 

The lambs 2 with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead. 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents 3 lick the pilgrim's feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The crested basilisk and speckled snake, 

Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongues shall innocently play. 

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, 4 rise, 

Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ! 

See a long race 5 thy spacious courts adorn; 

See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise, 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 

See barbarous nations 6 at thy gates attend, 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 

See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, 

And heap'd with products of Sabean 7 springs! 

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 

And seeds of gold in Ophir s mountains glow. 

See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 

And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 

No more the rising Sun 8 shall gild the morn, 

Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 

But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine 

Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 

The seas 9 shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 

But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ; 

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! 
Of the " Essay on Criticism," Dr. Johnson remarks, " if he had written 
nothing else, it would have placed him among the first critics and the first 
poets ; as it exhibits every mode of excellence that can embellish or dignify 
composition — selection of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept, 
Bplendox of illustration, and propriety of digression." 10 

PRIDE. 

Of all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 
Whatever Nature has in worth denied, 
She gives in large recruits of needful Pride ! 

1 Isa. xli. 19 ; lv. 13. 2 Isa. xi. 6—8. 3 isa. lxv. 25. 4 Isa. ]x. 1. 6 isa. lx. 4. 

Blsa.lx. 3. 7 Isa. lx. 6. 8 l sa . lx. 19, 20. 9 Isa. li. 6; liv. 10. 

10 " For a person only twenty years old to L.. ve produced such an Essay, so replete with a know- 
ledge of life and manners, such accurate obser vdtions on men and books, such variety of literature, 
such strong good sense, and refined taste and judgment, has been the subject of frequent and of just 
admiration."-- Warton. 



1727-1760.] pope. 455 

For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 

What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind. 

Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our defence, 

And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 

If once right reason drives that cloud away 

Trutii breaks upon us with resistless day. 

Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, 

Make use of every friend — and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ! 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 

And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, 

In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 

While, from the bounded level of our mind, 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 

But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 

New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 

Th' eternal snows appear already past, 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 

But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey 

The growing labors of the lengthen'd way; 

Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, 

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 

Essay on Criticism, 201. 
SOUND AN ECHO TO THE SENSE. 

Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
The sound must seem an Echo to the sense : 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line too labors, and the words move slow : 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. 1 

Essay on Criticism, 364. 
EVANESCENCE OF POETIC FAME. 

Be thou the first true merit to befriend ; 
His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. 
Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, 
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes. 



1 These lines are usually cited as fine examples of adapting the sound to the sense, but Dr. John- 
son, in the ninety-second number of the Rambler, has demonstrated that Pope has here signally 
failed. "The verse intended to represent the whisper of the vernal breeze must surely be confessed 
not much to excel in softness or volubility ; and the « smooth stream' runs with a perpetual clash 
of jarring consonants. The noise and turbulence of the 'torrent,' is indeed distinctly imaged ; for 
it requires very little skill to make our language rough. But in the lines which mention the effort of 
•Ajax,' there is no particular heaviness or delay. The 'swiftness of Camilla' is rather contrasted 
than exemplified. Why the verse should be lengthened to express speed will not easily be discovered. 
But the Alexandrine, by its pause in the midst, is a tardy and stately measure; and the word 'un 
bending,' one of the most sluggish and slow which our language affords, cannot much accelerate its 
motion." 



456 P0PE - [GEORGE II. 

No longer now that golden age appears, 
When Patriarch-wits survived a thousand years : 
Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, 
And bare threescore is all e'en that can boast; 
Our sons their fathers' failing language see, 
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. 
So when the faithful pencil has design'd 
Some bright idea of the master's mind, 
Where a new world leaps out at his command, 
And ready Nature waits upon his hand ; 
When the ripe colors soften and unite, 
And sweetly melt into just shade and light; 
When mellowing years their full perfection give, 
And each bold figure just begins to live ; 
The treacherous colors the fair art betray, 
And all tire bright creation fades away ! l 

Essay on Criticism, 474. 

The " Essay on Man" is a philosophical, didactic poem, in vindication of 
the ways of Providence, in which the poet proposes to prove, that, of all pos- 
sible systems, Infinite Wisdom has formed the best: that in such a system, 
coherence, union, subordination, are necessary: that it is not strange that we 
should not be able to discover perfection and order in every instance ; be- 
cause, in an infinity of things mutually relative, a mind which sees not infi- 
nitely, can see nothing fully. 

THE SCA1E OF BEING. 2 

Far as Creation's ample range extends, 
The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends: 
Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race, 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass; 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between, 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green ; 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the vernal wood ; 
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! 
Feels at each thread, and fives along the line : 
In the nice bee, what sense, so subtly true, 
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew 1 
How Instinct varies in the grovelling swine, 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine ! 
'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier ! 
For ever separate, yet for ever near ! 
Remembrance and Reflection, how allied ; 
What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide ! 
And Middle natures, how they long to join, 
Yet never pass th' insuperable line ! 
Without this just gradation, could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee ? 

1 "Nothing was ever so happily expressed on the art of painting."— Warton. 

2 ••These lines are admir<tDle patterns of forcible diction. 'To live along the line,* is equally bold 
and beauitful. If Pope must yield to other poets in point of fertility of fancy, yet in point of pro* 
priety, closeness, and elegance of diction, he can yield to none."— Warton. 



1721 1760.] pope. ' 457 

The powers of all, subdued by thee alone, 
Is not thy Reason all these powers in one ? 

Essay on Man, 1. 207* 

OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY. 1 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, 
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns; 
To Hun, no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills. He bounds, connects, and equals all. 

Essay on Man, i. 267. 

ADDRESS TO BOLINGBROKE. 3 

Come then, my Friend, my Genius, come along ; 
master of the poet and the song ! 
And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, 
To Man's low passions, or their glorious ends, 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; 
Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, 
Intent to reason, or polite to please. 
O! while, along the stream of time, thy name 
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ? 
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, 
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, 
Shall then this verse to future age pretend 
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ? 
That, urged by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art 
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart ; 
For wit's false mirror held up nature's light ; 
Show'd erring pride, whatever is, is right ? 
That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
That true self-love and social are the same ; 
That Virtue only makes our bliss below ; 
And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know ? 

Esmy an Man, iv. 3?o. 
. c _ 

1 "In reading this exalted description of the omnipresence of the Deity, feel myself almost 
tempted to retract an assertion in the beginning of this work, that there is nothing transeendenUy 
sublime in Pope. These lines have all the energy and harmony that can be given to rhyme."— War~ 
ton'* Essay, ii. 77. 

2 "In this concluding address of our author to Lord Bolingbroke, one is at a loss which to admtra 
most, the warmth of his friendship, or the warmth of his genius."— Warton. 

39 



458 POPE. [GEORGE IT. 

But it is in the " Rape of the Lock" l that Pope principally appears as a 
Foet, in which he has displayed more imagination than in all his other 
works taken together. "Its wit and humor," says Dr. Drake, "are of the 
most delicate and highly finished kind ; its fictions sportive and elegant, and 
conceived with a propriety and force of imagination which astonish and fas- 
cinate every reader." 8 

THE TOILET. 3 

And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd, 
Each silver Vase in mystic order laid; 
First, robed in white, the Nymph intent adores, 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears, 
To that she bends, to that her eye she rears ; 
Th' inferior Priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
The various oiferings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the Goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box : 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care, 
These set the head, and those divide the hair ; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown, 
And Betty's praised for labors not her own. 

Rape of the Lock, '. :*1. 
DESCRIPTION OF BELINDA. 

Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. 

1 The subject of this poem was a quarrel, occasioned by a little piece of gallantry of Lord Petre, 
who, in a party of pleasure, found means to cut off a favorite lock of Mrs. Arabella Fermor's hair. 
" On so slight a foundation has he raised this beautiful superstructure; like a fairy palace in a de- 
sert."— Warton. 

2 « I hope it will not be thought an exaggerated panegyric to say that the Kape of the Lock is the 
best satire extant; that it contains the truest and liveliest picture of modern life; and that the sub- 
ject is of a more elegant nature, as well as more artfully conducted, than that of any other heroi- 
comic poem. If some of the most candid among the French critics begin to acknowledge that they 
have produced nothing in point of suelimitt and majesty equal to the Paradise Lost, we may also 
venture to affirm, that in point of delicacy, elegance, and flne-turned raillery, on which they 
have so much valued themselves, they have produced nothing equal to the Rape of the Lock."— 
Warton. 

3 " The description of the Toilet is judiciously given in such magnificent turns, as dignify the offices 
performed in it. Belinda dressing is painted in as pompous a manner as Achilles arming." — Warton* 



1727-1760.] pope. 459 

Fair Nymphs and well-drest Youths around her shone, 

But every eye was fix'd on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 

Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. 

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those. 

Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 

Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 

Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide ; 

If to her share some female errors fall, 

Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck, 
With shining ringlets, the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray ; 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey ; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 

Rape of the Lock, ii. 1. 

THE BARON OFFERS SACRIFICE FOR SUCCESS. 

The adventurous Baron the bright locks admired ; 
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
' For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attain his ends. 

For this, ere Phcebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious Heaven, and every power adored ; 
But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built, 
Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves ; 
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize ; 
The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer, 
The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

Rape of the Lock, ii. 29. 

THE SYLPHS THEIR FUNCTIONS AND EMPLOYMENTS. 

Some to the sun their insect wings unfold, 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light, 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, 



460 pope. ["georgi v. 

Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies, 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes ; 
While every beam new transient colors flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings 
Amid the circle on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head was Ariel placed ; 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : — 

Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear ! 
Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Demons, hear ! 
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks assign'd 
By laws eternal to the aerial kind. 
Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day ; 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless sky : 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside, 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: 
Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
And guard with arms divine the British Throne. 

Our humbler province is to tend the Fair, 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in showers, 
A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, 
To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow. 1 

This day, black omens threat the brightest Fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force or slight; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapp'd in night. 
Whether the Nymph shall break Diana's law, 
Or some frail China-jar receive a flaw, 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade, 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; 
Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball; 
Or whether Heaven has doom'd that Shock 2 must fall. 
Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair : 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; 
And, Momentilla, let the -watch be thine ; 

t "The seeming importance given to every part of female dress, each of which is committed to the 
care and protection of a different sylph, with all the solemnity of a general appointing the several 
posts in his army, renders this whole passage admirable, on account of its politeness, poignancy, 
and poetry."— Warton. 2 Her lapdog. 



1727-1760.] pope. 461 

Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite Lock ; 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 

To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, 
We trust the important charge, the Petticoat : 
Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail, 
Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale. 
Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the wide circumference around. 

Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon oertake his sins, 
Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins ; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged, whole ages, in a bodkin's eye : 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain ; 
Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flower : 
Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill ; 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! * 

He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend : 
Some, orb in orb, around the Nymph extend ; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair, 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear : 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait, 
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate. 

Rape of the Lock, ii. 59. 
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame ! 
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying— 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; Angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite ? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight? 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
Oh Grave ! where is thy Victory ? 

Oh Death ! where is thy Sting ? 



1 " Our poet still rises in the delicacy of his satire, where he employs, with the utmost judgment 
and elegance, all the implements and furniture of the toilet as instruments of punishment to those 
«rpirlt8 who shall be careless of their charge :— of punishment s ach as sylphs alone could undergo."— 
Wartoru 

39* 



462 tope. [george n. 

It is to be regretted that the prose works of Pope are so few, for what he 
has left us are remarkable for great purity and correctness of style, clearness 
of conception, and soundness of judgment. The chief of them are his Let- 
ters, which are among the best specimens of epistolary writing ; a Preface 
to the Iliad; a Postscript to the Odyssey; a Preface to Shakspeare; and Pre- 
faces to his Pastorals and collected works. 



LETTER TO STEELE, UPON EARLY DEATH. 

You formerly observed to me, that nothing made a more ridi- 
culous figure in a man's life than the disparity we often find in 
him, sick and well. Thus, one of an unfortunate constitution is 
perpetually exhibiting a miserable example of the weakness of his 
mind and of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent oppor- 
tunities of late to consider myself in these different views, and, I 
hope, have received some advantage by it, if what Waller says be 
true, that 

The soul's dark cottage, batter d and decay'd, 

Lots in new light through clrjiks that time has made. 

Then surely sickness, contributing, no less than old age, to the 
shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the in 
ward structure more plainly. S.ckness is a sort of early old age • 
it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and inspires us with 
thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philoso 
phers and divines. It gives so warning a concussion to thos? 
props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of for- 
tifying ourselves within, when there is so little dependence upop 
our outworks. Youth, at the very best, is but a betrayer of humap 
life in a gentler and smoother manner than age : 'tis like a stream 
that nourishes a plant upon a bank, and causes it to nourish an^ 
blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at thp 
root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with 
me ; it has afforded several prospects of my danger, and given me 
an advantage, not very common to young men, that the attractions 
of the world have not dazzled me very much; and I begin, where 
most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts 
of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures, 
when a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tenement of my 
body will fall in a little time ; I am even as unconcerned as was 
that honest Hibernian, who, being in bed in the great storm some 
years ago, and told the house would tumble over his head, made 
answer, "What care I for the house ? I am only a lodger." When 
I reflect what an inconsiderable little atom every single man is, 
with respect to the whole creation, methinks 'tis a shame to be 
concerned at the removal of such a trivial animal as 1 am. The 
morning after my exit, the sun will rise as bright, as ever, the 



1727-1760.] pope 463 

flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will 
proceed in its old course, people will laugh as heartily and marry- 
as fast as they were used to do. The memory of man (as it is 
elegantly expressed in the Book of Wisdom) passeth away as the 
remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are 
reasons enough, in the fourth chapter of the same book, to make 
any young man contented with the prospect of death. " For ho- 
norable age is not that which standeth in length of time, or is 
measured by number of years. But wisdom is gray hair to men, 
and an unspotted life is old age. He was taken away speedily, 
lest wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile 
his soul." 

July 15, 1712. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

If ever any author deserved the name of an original, it was 
Shakspeare. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately 
from the fountains of Nature ; it proceeded through Egyptian 
strainers and channels, and came to him not without some tinc- 
ture of the learning, or some cast of the models, of those before 
him. The poetry of Shakspeare was inspiration indeed : he is 
not so much an imitator, as an instrument, of Nature ; and it is 
not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks 
through him. 

His characters are so much Nature 1 herself, that it is a sort of 
injury to call them by so distant a name as copies of her. Those 
of other poets have a constant, resemblance, which shows that they 
received them from one another, and were but multipliers of the 
same image ; each picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but the reflec- 
tion of a reflection. But every single character in Shakspeare is 
* as much an individual as those in life itself: it is as impossible to 
find any two alike ; and such as from their relation or affinity in 
any respect appear most to be twins, will, upon comparison, be 
found remarkably distinct. To this life and variety of character 
we must add the wonderful preservation of it ; which is such 
throughout his plays, that had all the speeches been printed with- 
out the very names of the persons, I believe one might have 
applied them with certainty to every speaker. 

The power over our passions was never possessed in a more 
eminent degree, or displayed in so different instances. Yet all 
along there is seen no labor, no pains to raise them ; no prepara- 
tion to guide or guess to the effect, or be perceived to lead toward 
it : but the heart swells, and the tears burst out, just at ine proper 
places : we are surprised at the moment we weep; and yet, upon 

1 See Mrs. Montagu's ingenious Essay on Shakspeare. and her confutations of Voltaire's criticisms. 



> 



464 POPE. [GEORGE II. 

reflection, find the passion so just, that we should be surprised if 
we had not wept, and wept at that very moment. 

How astonishing is it, again, that the passions directly opposite 
to these, laughter and spleen, are no less at his command ! that 
he is not more a master of the great than the ridiculous in human 
nature ; of our noblest tendernesses, than of our vainest foibles ; of 
our strongest emotions, than of our idlest sensations ! 

Nor does he only excel in the passions : in the coolness of re- 
flection and reasoning, he is full as admirable. His sentiments 
are not only in general the most pertinent and judicious upon 
every subject ; but by a talent very peculiar, something between 
penetration and felicity, he hits upon that particular point on 
which the bent of each argument turns, or the force of each motive 
depends. This is perfectly amazing, from a man of no education 
or experience in those great and public scenes of life which are 
usually the subject of his thoughts : so that he seems to have 
known the world by intuition, to have looked through human 
nature at one glance, and to be the only author that gives ground 
for a very new opinion, that the philosopher, and even the man 
of the world, may be born, as well as the poet. 

Preface to Shaktpeare. 
HOMER AND VIRGIL COMPARED. 

On whatever side we contemplate Homer, what principally 
strikes us is his invention. It is that which forms the character 
of each part of his work ; and accordingly we find it to have made 
his fable more extensive and copious than any other, his manners 
more lively and strongly marked, his speeches more affecting and 
transporting, his sentiments more warm and sublime, his images 
and descriptions more full and animated, his expression more 
raised and daring, and his numbers more rapid and various. I 
hope, in what has been said of Virgil, with regard to any of these 
heads, I have no way derogated from his character. Nothing is 
more absurd or endless, than the common method of comparing 
eminent writers by an opposition of particular passages in them, 
and forming a judgment from thence of their merit upon the 
whole. We ought to have a certain knowledge of the principal 
character and distinguished excellence of each : it is in that we 
are to consider him, and in proportion to his degree in that we 
are to admire him. No author or man ever excelled all the 
world in more than one faculty : and as Homer has done this in 
invention, Virgil has in judgment. Not that we are to think 
Homer wanted judgment, because Virgil had it in a more eminent 
degree ; or that Virgil wanted invention, because Homer possessed 
a larger shart-; of it : each of these great authors had more of both 



1727-1760.] blair. 465 

than perhaps any man besides, and are only sa.d to have less in 
comparison with one another. Homer was the greater genius ; 
Virgil, the better artist. In one we most admire the man ; in the 
other, the work. Homer hurries and transports us with a com- 
manding impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty : 
Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a 
careful magnificence : Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches 
with a boundless overflow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with 
a gentle and constant stream. When we behold their battles, me- 
thinks the two poets resemble the heroes they celebrate : Homer, 
boundless and irresistible as Achilles, bears all before him, and 
shines more and more as the tumult increases; Virgil, calmly 
daring like iEneas, appears undisturbed in the midst of the 
action; disposes all about him, and conquers with tranquillity. 
And when we look upon their machines, Homer seems like his 
own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the light- 
nings, and firing the heavens ; Virgil, like the same power in his 
benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying plans for empires, 
and regularly ordering his whole creation. 

Preface to the Iliad. 



ROBERT BLAIR. 1699—1746. 

Robert Biair, the author of "The Grave," was born in 1699. But few 
particulars are known respecting his life. After receiving a liberal educa- 
tion, he travelled on the continent for further improvement, and in 1731 was 
ordained as a minister of the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian, where 
he spent the remainder of his life, which was terminated by a fever, in 1746, 
in the forty-seventh year of his age. 

" The eighteenth century has produced few specimens of blank verse of so 
powerful and simple a character as that of the ' Grave.' It is a popular poem, 
not merely because it is religious, but because its language and imagery are 
free, natural, and picturesque. In the eye of fastidious criticism, Blair may be 
a homely and even a gloomy poet ; but there is a masculine and pronounced 
character even in his gloom and homeliness, that keeps it most distinctly apart 
from either dryness or vulgarity. His style pleases us like the powerful ex- 
pression of a countenance without regular beauty." l 

THE GRAVE. 

Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, 
Some flee the city, some the hermitage ; 
Their aims as various as the roads they take 
In journeying through life ; — the task be mine 
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all 
These travellers meet. — Thy succors I implore, 



1 Campbell's Specimens, vol. v. p 204, 
2G 



466 BLAIR. [GEORGE II. 

Eteina. King! whose potent arm sustains 

The keys of bell and death. — The Grave — dread thing! 

Men shiver when thou'rt named. Nature, appalfd, 

Shakes off her wonted firmness. — Ah! how dark 

Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes! 

Where naught but silence reigns, and night, dark night, 

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 

Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 

Athwart the gloom profound. 

DEATH-DIVIDED FRIENDSHIPS. 

Invidious Grave ! how dost thou rend in sunder 
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! 
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweetener of life ! and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me 
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, 
And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart, 
Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend *md I 
[n some thick wood have wander'd heedless on 
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, 
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
In grateful errors through the underwood, 
Sweet murmuring, methought the shrill-tongued thrush 
Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note; 
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose 
Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every flower 
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury 
Of dress ! Oh ! then the longest summer's day 
Seem'd too, too much in haste : still, the full heart 
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed 
Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 

DEATH, THE GOOD MAN'S PATH TO ETERNAL JOY. 

Thrice welcome Death ! 
That after many a painful bleeding step, 
Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe 
On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change ! 
Our bane turn'd to a blessing ! Death, disarmed, 
Loses his fellness quite ; all thanks to Him 
Who scourged the venom out. Sure the last end 
Of the good man is peace' How calm his exit! 
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, 
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. 
Behold him ! in the evening tide of life, 
A life well spent, whose early care it was 
His riper years should not upbraid his green : 
By jmperceived degrees he wears away; 
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting J 



1727 -1760.] blair. 467 

High in his faith and hopes, look how he roaches 

After the prize in view ! and, like a bird 

That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away ! ■ 

Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded 

To let new glories in, the first fair fruits 

Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, oh, then, 

Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, 

Shrunk to a thing of naught ! Oh, how he longs 

To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd ! 

'Tis done — and now he's happy ! The glad soul 

Has not a wish uncrown'd. E'en the lag flesh 

Rests, too, in hope of meeting once again 

Its better half, never to sunder more. 

Nor shall it hope in vain : the time draws on 

When not a single spot of burial earth, 

Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, 

But must give back its long-committed dust 

Inviolate ; and faithfully shall these 

Make up the full account ; not the least atom 

Embezzled or mislaid of the whole tale. 

Each soul shall have a body ready furnish'd ; 

And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane 

Ask not how this can be ? Sure the same Power 

That rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, 

Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, 

And put them as they were. Almighty God 

Hath done much more : nor is his arm impair'd 

Through length of days; and what he can, he will; 

His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. 

When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, 

Not unattentive to the call, shall wake ; 

And every joint possess its proper place, 

With a new elegance of form unknown 

To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul 

Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd, 

Singling its other half, into its arms 

Shall rush, with all th' impatience of a man 

That's new come home, and, having long been absent 

With haste runs over every different room, 

In pain to see the whole. Thrice-happy meeting ! 

Nor time, nor death, shall ever part them more. 

'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night ; 
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone ! 

Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird 
Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake 
Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day, 
Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away 



468 THOMSON. [GEORGE II. 



JAMES THOMSON. 1700—1748. 

James Thomson, the author of " The Seasons," was the son of a Scotch 
clergyman, and was born in the year 1700. After completing his academic 
education at the University of Edinburgh, he entered upon the study of divi 
nity ; but a paraphrase of one of the Psalms having been given, by the pro- 
fessor of divinity, to the class, Thomson's exercise was in so poetical and 
figurative a style as to astonish all who heard it. This incident made him 
resolve to quit divinity for poetry, and, after some time, he went to London, 
poor and friendless, to try his fortune, with the manuscript of " Winter" in 
his pocket. It was with difficulty he found a purchaser for it, and the price 
given was trifling. It was published in 1726, and after a period of neglect, 1 
was admired and applauded, and a number of editions speedily followed. 
His "Summer" appeared in 1727, "Spring" in 1728, and "Autumn" in 1730. 

After the publication of the Seasons, he travelled on the continent with the 
son of the Lord Chancellor Talbot, and on his return employed himself in the 
composition of his various tragedies, and his poem on "Liberty." These are 
by no means equal to his other performances, and are now but little read. In 
May, 1748, he finished his "Castle of Indolence," upon which he had been 
laboring for years. This is the noblest effort of his genius. " To it," says 
Campbell, "he brought not only the full nature, but the perfect art of a poet. 
The materials of that exquisite poem are derived originally from Tasso; but 
he was more immediately indebted for them to the Faerie Queene." In- 
deed, of all the imitations of Spenser, it is the most spirited and beautiful, both 
for its moral, poetical, and descriptive power. He did not long survive its 
publication. A violent cold, through inattention, terminated in a fever, and 
carried him off on the 27th of August, 1748. 

In nature and originality, Thomson is superior to all the descriptive poets 
except Cowper, and few poems in the English language have been more 
popular than the " Seasons." " It is almost stale to remark," observes Camp- 
bell, "the beauties of a poem so universally felt; the truth and genial interest 
with which he carries us through the life of the year ; the harmony of succes- 
sion which he gives to the casual phenomena of nature ; his pleasing transi- 
tion from native to foreign scenery ; and the soul of exalted and unfeigned 
benevolence which accompanies his prospects of the creation. It is but equal 
justice to say that, amidst the feeling and fancy of the * Seasons,' we meet 
■with interruptions of declamation, heavy narrative, and unhappy digression."2 

But though Thomson's merits as a descriptive poet are of the first order ; 
though " he looks with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet, and 
with a mind that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to the minute," 
yet his greatest charm, and that which makes him so popular with all classes, 
is, that he looks also with a heart that feels for all mankind. As has been 
well said, " his sympathies are universal." His touching allusions to the con- 

1 " When Thomson published his "Winter," it lay a long time neglected, till Mr. Spense made ho- 
norable mention of it in his " Odyssey," which, becoming a popular book, made the poem universally 
known." — Warton. 

2 "Thomson was blessed with a strong and copious fancy: he hath enriched poetry with a variety 
of new and original images, which he painted from nature itself, and from his own actual observa 
tions : his descriptions have therefore a distinctness and truth which are utterly wanting to those 
of poets who have only copied from each other, and* have never looked abroad on the objects them 
selves."— Warton't Pope, > 42. 



1727-1760.] Thomson. 469 

ditions of the poor and suffering ; to the hapless state of bird and beast in 
winter ; the description of the peasant perishing in the snow ; the Siberian 
exile, or the Arab pilgrims, all are marked with that humanity and true feel- 
ing which show that the poet's virtues "formed the magic of his song." 
The genuine impulses under which he wrote, he has expressed in one noble 
atanza in the " Castle of Indolence :" — 

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening facej 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave ; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 



THE LOVES OF THE BIRDS. 

When first the soul of love is sent abroad, 
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin 
In gallant thought to plume the painted wing, 
And try again the long-forgotten strain, 
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows 
The soft infusion prevalent and wide, 
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
In music unconfined. Up-springs the lark, 
Shrill- voiced and loud, the messenger of morn ; 
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads 
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, 
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng 
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length 
Of notes ; when listening Philomela deigns 
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
The black -bird whistles from the thorny brake; 
The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove : 
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these 
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
Aid the full concert : while the stock-dove breathes 
A melancholy murmur through the whole. 

'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
That e'en to birds, and beasts, the tender arts 
Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 
40 



470 THOMSON. [GEORGE II. 

Try every winning way inventive love 
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates 
Pour forth their little souls. 

Spring, 579. 
A SUMMER SCENE. 

Around th' adjoining brook, that purls along 
The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock, 
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, 
• Now starting to a sudden stream, and now 
Gently diffused into a limpid plain ; 
A various group the herds and flocks compose ; 
Rural confusion ! on the grassy bank 
Some ruminating lie ; while others stand 
Half in the flood, and, often bending, sip 
The circling surface. In the middle droops 
The strong laborious ox, of honest front, 
Which incomposed he shakes ; and from his sides 
The troublous insects lashes with his tail, 
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe, 
Slumbers the monarch-swain ; his careless arm 
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain 1 d 
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd ; 
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog. 



A THUNDER-SHOWER. 

'Tis listening fear and dumb amazement all ; 
When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud ; 
And following slower, in explosion vast, 
The Thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, 
The tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, 
And rolls its awful burden on the wind, 
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more 
The noise astounds: till over head a sheet 
Of livid flame discloses wide ; then shuts, 
And opens wider ; shuts and opens still 
Expansive, wrapping aether in a blaze. 
Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, 
Enlarging, deepening, mingling ; peal on peal 
Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. 

Summer, 1126 

SUMMER EVENING. 

Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds, 
All ether softening, sober evening takes 
Hei wonted station in the middle air; 
A thousand shadows at her beck. First this 
She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 
Steals soft behind ; and then a deeper still, 
In circle following circle, gathers round, 
To close the face of things. A fresher gale 



1727-1760.] Thomson. 471 

Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, 
Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn; 
While the quail clamors for his running mate. 
Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, 
A whitening shower of vegetable down 
Amusive floats. The kind impartial care 
Of nature naught disdains : thoughtful to feed 
Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, 
From field to field the feather'd seeds she wings. 

His folded flock secure, the shepherd home 
Hies merry-hearted ; and by turns relieves 
The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; 
The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart — 
Unknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish means— 
Sincerely loves, by that best language shown 
Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. 
Onward they pass o'er many a panting height, 
And valley sunk and unfrequented 5 where 
At fall of eve the fairy people throng, 
In various game and revelry, to pass 
The summer-night, as village stories tell. 
But far about they wander from the grave 
Of him whom his ungentle fortune urged 
Against his own sad breast to lift the hand 
Of impious violence. The lonely tower 
Is also shunn'd ; whose mournful chambers hold — 
So night-struck Fancy dreams — the yelling ghost. 

Summer. 16M 



THE SPRINGS OF RIVERS. 

Say then, where lurk the vast eternal springs, 
That, like creating Nature, lie conceal'd 
From mortal eye, yet with their lavish stores 
Refresh the globe, and all its joyous tribes ? 
O, thou pervading Genius, given to man, 
To trace the secrete of the dark abyss, 
O, lay the mountains bare ! and wide display 
Their hidden structures to th' astonish'd view ! 
Strip from the branching Alps their piny load; 
The huge encumbrance of horrific woods 
From Asian Taurus, from Imaus stretch'd 
Athwart the roving Tartar's sullen bounas! 
Give opening Hsmus to my searching eye, 
And high Olympus pouring many a stream \ 
O, from the sounding summits of the north, 
The Dofrine Hills, through Scandinavia roll'd, 
The farthest Lapland and the frozen main; 
From lofty Caucasus, far-seen by those 
Who in the Caspian and black Euxine toil; 
From cold Riphsean Rocks, which the wild Russ 
Believes the stony girdle of the world ; 
And all the dreadful mountains, wrapt in storm, 
Whence wide Siberia draws her lonely flood?,.; 
O, sweep th' eternal snows ! Hung o'er the deeft 



472 THOMSON. [GEORGE H. 

That ever works beneath his sounding base, 
Bid Atlas, propping heaven, as poets feign, 
His subterranean wonders spread ! unveil 
The miny caverns, blazing on the day, 
Of Abyssinia's cloud-compelling cliffs, 
And of the bending Mountains of the Moon ! 
O'ertopping all these giant sons of earth, 
Let the dire Andes, from the radiant line 
Stretch'd to the stormy seas that thunder round 
The southern pole, their hideous deeps unfold! 
Amazing scene ! Behold! the glooms disclose: 
I see the rivers in their infant beds ! 
Deep, deep I hear them, laboring to get free ! 

Autumn, 773. 

A MAN PERISHING IN THE SNOWS OF WINTER. 

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce 
All Winter drives along the darken'd air ; . - 

In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain 
Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, 
Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes, 
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 
Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! 
What black despair, what horror fills his heart! 
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 
His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
Far from the track, and blest abode of man : 
While round him night resistless closes fast, 
And every tempest, howling o'er his head, 
Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, 
A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; 
Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 
Smooth'd up with snow ; and, what is land unknown, 
What water of the still unfrozen spring, 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Tlirough the wrung bosom of the dying man — 
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares 
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm} 
In vain his little children, peeping out 



1727-1760.] Thomson. 473 

Into the mingling storm, demand their sire. 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
The deadly Winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; 
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 
Lays him along the snow, a stiffen'd corse — 
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 

Winter, 276. 

THE VARIOUS SUFFERINGS IN WINTER. 

Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud, 
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround ; 
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, 
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ; 
Ah! little think they, while they dance along, 
How many feel, this very moment, death 
And all the sad variety of pain. 
How many sink in the devouring flood, 
Or more -devouring flame. How many bleed, 
By shameful variance betwixt man and man. 
How many pine in want and dungeon glooms ; 
Shut from the common air, and common use 
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup 
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds, 
How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty. How many shake 
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, 
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ; 
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, 
They furnish matter for the tragic muse. 
Ev'n in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, 
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd, 
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
In deep retired distress. How many stand 
Around the death-bed of their dearest "friends, 
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man 
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 
That one incessant struggle render life 
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, 
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, 
And heedless rambling impulse learn to think ; 
The conscious heart of charity would warm, 
And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; 
And social tear would rise, the social sigh • 
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, 
Refining still, the social passions work. 



Whiter, 323. 



MORAL OF THE SEASONS. 



'Tis done ! — Dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, 
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
40* 



474 THOMSON. [georgb n. 

How dumb the tuneful ! horror wide extends 

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man! 

See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years, 

Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength 

Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 

And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 

And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 

Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 

Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 

Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days 1 

Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, 

Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life 1 

All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives, 

Immortal, never-failing friend of man, 

His guide to happiness on high. And see! 

'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 

Of heaven and earth ! Awakening Nature hears 

The new-creating word, and starts to life, 

In every heighten'd form, from pain and death 

For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 

Involving all, and in a perfect whole 

Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 

To reason's eye refined, clears up apace. 

Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now, 

Confounded in the dust, adore that Power 

And Wisdom oft arraign'd : see now the cause, 

Why unassuming worth in secret lived, 

And died, neglected : why the good man's share 

In life was gall and bitterness of soul : 

Why the lone widow and her orphans pined 

In starving solitude ! while luxury, 

In palaces, lay straining her low thought — 

To form unreal wants : why heaven-born truth, 

And moderation fair, wore the red marks 

Of superstition's scourge : why licensed pain, 

That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 

Imbitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd ! 

Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up a while, 

And what your bounded view, which only saw 

A little part, deem'd evil is no more : 

The storms of wintry time will quickly pass, 

And one unbounded Spring encircle all. 

Winter, 1024 

HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles : 
And every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 



nitf-1760.] Thomson. 475 

Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks — 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, 
Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing 
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep-felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole, 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots steaming thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; 
Flings from the sun direct the naming day; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth, 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join, every living soul 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes 
Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms ! 
Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 
Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound his stupendous praise, — whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to Him, — whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints, 
Ye forests, bend ; ye harvests, wave to Him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 



476 THOMSON. [GEORGE U 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, 

On nature write with every beam His praise. 

The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world; 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, 

Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns, 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands, all awake : a boundless song 

Burst from the groves ; and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 

Ye cbief, for whom the whole creation smiles ; 

At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 

Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, 

Assembled men to the deep organ join 

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass; 

And, as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardor rise to heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 

And find a fane in every sacred grove, 

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 

Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 

Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 

Or Winter rises in the blackening east — 

Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song — where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis naught to me: 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where He vital spreads, there must be joy. 
When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming evil still educing good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression. — But I lose 
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 
Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise 



1727-1760.] Thomson. 477 



mortal man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate 5 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
Withouten that would come a heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
And there, a season atween June and May, 
Half prank'd with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared e'en for play. 

Was naught around but images of rest; 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen; 
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills, 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 
Or stock-doves 'plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
From all the roads of earth that pass thereby ; 
For, as they chanced to breathe on neighboring hill, 
The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh ; 
Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, 
YmoLten with his siren melody ; 
While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 
And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung • 

" Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! 
See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay : 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! 
What youthful bride can equal her array 1 ? 



478 THOMSON. [GEORGE II. 

Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ? 
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 
Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 

" Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 
The swarming songsters of the careless grove, 
Ten thousand throats ! that from the flowering thorn, 
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : 
They neither plough, nor sow, ne, fit for flail, 
E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove ; 
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 

* Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life 
Push hard up hill ; but as the farthest steep 
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, 
And hurls your labors to the valley deep, 
For ever vain ; come, and, withouten fee, 
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 
Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea 
Of full delight ; oh come, ye weary wights, to me ! 

" With me you need not rise at early dawn, 
To pass the joyous day in various stounds ; 
Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, 
And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds ; 
Or through the city take your dirty rounds, 
To cheat, and dun, and he, and visit pay, 
Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds : 
Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, 
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. 

" No cocks, with me, to rustic labor call, 
From village on to village sounding clear : 
To tardy swain no shrill- voiced matrons squall ; 
No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; 
No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith fear j 
No noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, 
With sounds that are a misery to hear : 
But all is calm, as would delight the heart 
•)f Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art. 

" What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, 
A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; 
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, 
Above the passions that this world deform, 
And torture man, a proud malignant worm ? 
But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, 
And gently stir the heart, thereby to form 
A quicker sense of joy ; as breezes stray 
Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still more gay. 

" The best of men have ever loved repose ; 
They hate to mingle in the filthy fray j 



1727-1760.] watts. 479 

Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows, 
Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. 
E'en those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, 
The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, 
From a base world at last have stolen away : 
So Scipio, to the soft Cumsean shore 
Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 

" Oh, grievous folly ! to heap up estate, 
Losing the days you see beneath the sun ; 
When, sudden, conies blind unrelenting fate, 
And gives th' untasted portion you have won, 
With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, 
To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, 
There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun : 
But sure it is of vanities most vain, 
To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." 



ISAAC WATTS. 1674—1748. 



Isaac Watts, whose reputation as a prose writer and as a poet is as wide 
as the world of letters, was born at Southampton on the 17th of July, 1674. 
At the age of but four years he began to study the Latin language; but as hs 
was a " dissenter" from the " established" church, he could not look forward 
to an education in either of the great universities, and therefore, at the age of 
sixteen, he was placed under the care of the Rev. Thomas Rowe, who had 
charge of an academy in London. At the age of twenty he returned to his 
father's house, and spent two years in studying for the ministry. At the close 
of this period he accepted the invitation of Sir John Hartopp to reside with 
him as tutor to his son, and remained with him five years, devoting most of 
his time to a critical knowledge of the Greekand Hebrew Scriptures, and en- 
tering, during the last year, upon the duties of his profession. 

In 1698 he was chosen as an assistant to Dr. Chauncey, pastor of an Inde- 
pendent church in Southampton, and on his death, 1702, was elected to suc- 
ceed him. Soon after entering upon his office he was attacked by a dangerous 
illness, from which he but very slowly recovered. Ln 1712 he was again 
seized with a fever so violent and of so long continuance, that it left him in a 
feeble state for the rest of his life. In this state he found in Sir Thomas Ab- 
ney a friend such as is not often to be met with. This gentleman received 
him into his own house, where he remained an inmate of the family for thirty- 
six years, that is, to the end of his life, where he was treated the whole time 
with all the kindness that friendship could prompt, and all the attention that 
respect could dictate. 1 Here he devoted all the time that his health would 
allow to the composition of his various works, and to his official functions j 
and when increasing weakness compelled him to relinquish both, his congTO- 

1 " A coalition like this— a state in which the notions of patronage and dependence were ovef 
powered by the perception of reciprocal benefits, deserves a particular memorial."— Dr. Johnson, 
Accordingly the great biographer has given in his life of Watts a long extract from Dr. G-ibbons's 
touching account of "Watts's residence in this family, and then adds : "If this quotation has apppared 
long, let it be considered that it comprises an account of six-and-thirty years and those the years of 
Dr. Watta." 



480 WATTS. [GEORGE II. 

gation would not accept his resignation, but, while they elected another pas- 
tor, continued to him the salary he had been accustomed to receive. On the 
25th of November, 1748, without a pain or a struggle, this great and good man 
breathed his last. 1 

In his literary character, -Dr. Watts may be considered as a poet, a philoso- 
pher, and a theologian. As a poet, if he takes not the very first rank in the 
imaginative, the creative, or the sublime, he has attained what the greatest 
might well envy, — a universality of fame. He is emphatically the classic 
poet of the religious world, wherever the English language is known. His 
version of the Psalms, his three books of Hymns, and his " Divine Songs for 
Children," have been more read and committed to memory, have exerted 
more holy influences, and made more lasting impressions for good upon the 
human heart, and have called forth more fervent aspirations for the joys and 
the happiness of heaven, than the productions of any other poet — perhaps it 
would not be too strong to say than all other poets, (die sacred bards of 
course excepted,) living or dead. 

As a philosopher, he has the rare merit of always being practically useful, 
especially in the education of youth. His " Logic, or Right use of Reason," 
was for a long time a text-book in the English Universities ; and of his " Im- 
provement of the Mind," no happier eulogium can be given than that by Dr. 
Johnson: 2 "Few books," says the sage, "have been perused by me with 
greater pleasure than this ; and whoever has the care of instructing others 
may be charged with deficiency if this book is not recommended." 

As a theologian, the compositions of Watts are very numerous, and " every 
page," says Dr. Drake, " displays his unaffected piety, the purity of his prin- 
ciples, the mildness of his disposition, and the great goodness of his heart 
The style of all his works is perspicuous, correct, and frequently elegant ; and 
happily for mankind, his labors have been translated and dispersed with a 
zeal thai, does honor to human nature ; for there are probably few persons 
who have studied the writings of Dr. Watts without a wish for improvement} 
without an effort to become wiser or better members of society." 

A SUMMER EVENING. 

How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, 
How lovely and joyful the course that he run, 
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, 

And there follow'd some droppings of rain! 
But now the fair traveller's come to the west, 
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best ; 
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, 

And foretells a bright rising again. 

1 When he was almost worn out by his infirmities, he observed, in a conversation with a friend, 
that " he remembered an aged minister used to say that the most learned and knowing Christians, 
when they come to die, have only the same plain promises of the Gospel for their support as the 
common and unlearned." " So," said Watts, "I find it. It is the plain promises of the Gospel that 
are my support ; and I bless God they are plain promises, and do not require much labor and pains to 
understand them, for I can do nothing now but look into my Bible for some promise to support me, 
and live upon that." 

S "He 18 one of the few poets," says Dr. Johnson, "with whom youth and ignorance may bp 
safely pleased ; and happy will be that reader whose mind is disposed, by his verses or his prose, to 
co-py his benevolence to man and his reverence to God." Read— his Life in Drake's Essays— 
J >unsoo's Life— Memoir, *>y Southey— Memoirs, by Thomas Gibson. 



1727-1760.J watts. 4^1 

Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins, 
Like the sun m a mist, when he mourns for his sins, 
And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and shines, 

And travels his heavenly way : 
But when he comes nearer to finish his race, 
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, 
And gives a sure hope at the end of his days 

Of rising in brighter array. 

THE ROSE. 

How fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower, 

The glory of April and May ! 
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, 

And they wither and die in a day. 

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, 

Above all the flowers of the field ; 
When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost, 

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! 

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, 
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ; 

But all our fond cares to preserve them is vain, 
Time kills them as fast as he goes. 

Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, 

Since both of them wither and fade ; 
But gain a good name by well doing my duty; 

This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. 



FEW HAPPY MATCHES. 

Say, mighty Love, and teach my song 
To whom thy sweetest joys belong ; 

And who the happy pairs 
Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, 
Find blessings twisted with their bands, 

To soften all their cares. 

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains 
That thoughtless fly into thy chains, 

As custom leads the way : 
If there be bliss without design, 
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, 

And be as blest as they. 

Not sordid souls of earthy mould, 
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold 

To dull embraces move : 
So two rich mountains of Peru 
May rush to wealthy marriage too, 

And make a world of love. 



Not the mad tribe that hell inspires 
With wanton flames ; those raging fires 
The purer bliss destroy : 



2 H 41 



482 WATTS. [GEOBGE II. 

On ^Etna's top let Furies wed, 
And sheets of lightning dress the bed 
T' improve the burning joy. 

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms 
None of the melting passions warms, 

Can mingle hearts and hands : 
Logs of green wood that quench the coals 
Are married just like Stoic souls, 

With osiers for their bands. 

Not minds of melancholy strain, 
Still silent, or that still complain, 

Can the dear bondage bless : 
As well may heavenly concerts spring 
From two old lutes with ne'er a string, 

Or none besides the bass. 

Nor can the soft enchantments hold 
Two jarring souls of angry mould, 

The rugged and the keen : 
Samson's young foxes might as well 
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, 

With firebrands tied between. 

Nor let the cruel fetters bind 
A gentle to a savage mind ; 

For Love abhors the sight: 
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, 
For native rage and native fear 

Rise and forbid delight. 

Two kindest souls alone must meet ; 
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet 

And feeds their mutual loves : 
Bright Venus on her rolling throne 
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, 

And Cupids yoke the doves. 



LOOKING UPWARD. 

The heavens invite mine eye, 
The stars salute me round ; 

Father, I blush, I mourn to lie 
Thus grovelling on the ground. 

My warmer spirits move, 
And make attempts to fly; 

I wish aloud for wings of love 
To raise me swift and high 

Beyond those crystal vaults, 
And all their sparkling balls ; 

They're but the porches to thy courts, 
And paintings on thy walla. 



1727-1760.] watts. 483 

Vain world, farewell to you ; 

Heaven is my native air : 
I bid my friends a short adieu, 

Impatient to be there. 

I feel my powers released 

From their old fleshy clod ; 
Fair guardian, bear me up in haste, 

And set me near my God. 

SEEKING A DIVINE CALM IN A RESTLESS WORLD. 

Eternal mind, who rul'st the fates 
Of dying realms and rising states, 

With one unchanged decree ; 
While we admire thy vast affairs, 
Say, can our little trifling cares 

Afford a smile to thee? 

Thou scatterest honors, crowns, and gold : 
We fly to seize, and fight to hold 

The bubbles and the ore : 
So emmets struggle for a grain ; 
So boys their petty wars maintain 

For shells upon the shore. 

Here a vain man his sceptre breaks, 
The next a broken sceptre takes, 

And warriors win and lose ; 
This rolling world will never stand, 
Plunder'd and snatch'd from hand to hand, 

As power decays or grows. 

Earth's but an atom : greedy swords 
Carve it among a thousand lords ; 

And yet they can't agree : 
Let greedy swords still fight and slay; 
I can be poor; but, Lord, I pray 

To sit and smile with thee. 

LAUNCHING INTO ETERNITY. 

It was a brave attempt ! adventurous he 
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea : 
And, leaving his dear native shores behind, 
Trusted his life to the licentious wind. 
I see the surging brine : the tempest raves : 
He on a pine-plank rides across the waves, 
Exulting on the edge of thousand gaping graves 
He steers the winged boat, and shifts the sails. 
Conquers the flood, and manages the gales. 

Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land, 
Fearless when the great Master gives command. 
Death is the storm : she smiles to hear it roar, 
And bids the tempest waft her from the shore . 
Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas, 
And manages the raging storm with ease j 



484 WATTS. [GEORGE IT. 

Her faith can govern death ; she spreads her wings 

Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings, 

And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things. 

As the shores lessen, so her joys arise, 

The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies ; 

Now vast eternity fills all her sight, 

She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight, 

The seas for ever calm, the skies for ever bright. 

GENERAL DIRECTIONS RELATING TO OUR IDEAS. 

Direction I.— Furnish yourselves with a rich variety of 
ideas; acquaint yourselves with things ancient and modern; 
things natural, civil, and religious ; things domestic and national ; 
things of your native land and of foreign countries ; things pre- 
sent, past, and future ; and, above all, be well acquainted with 
God and yourselves ; learn animal nature, and the workings of 
your own spirits. 

The way of attaining such an extensive treasure of iu r eA« is, 
with diligence to apply yourself to read the best books ; converse 
with the most knowing and the wisest of men, and endeavor to 
improve by every person in whose company you are ; suffer no 
hour to pass away in a lazy idleness, in impertinent chattering, or 
useless trifles : visit other cities and countries when you have 
seen your own, under the care of one who can teach you to profit 
by travelling, and to make wise observations ; indulge a just curi- 
osity in seeing the wonders of art and nature ; search into things 
yourselves, as well as learn them from others ; be acquainted with 
men as well as books ; learn all things as much as you can at first 
hand ; and let as many of your ideas as possible be the represen- 
tations of things, and not merely the representations of other men's 
ideas : thus your soul, like some noble building, shall be richly 
furnished with original paintings, and not with mere copies. 

Direction II. — Use the most proper methods to retain that 
treasure of ideas which you have acquired; for the mind is ready 
to let many of them slip, unless some pains and labor be taken to 
fix them upon the memory. 

And more especially let those ideas be laid up and preserved 
with the greatest care, which are most directly suited, either to 
your eternal welfare as a Christian, or to your particular station 
and profession in this life ; for though the former rule recom- 
mends a universal acquaintance with things, yet it is but a more 
general and superficial knowledge that is required or expected of 
any man, in things which are utterly foreign to his own business ; 
but it is necessary you should have a more particular and accu- 
rate acquaintance with those things that refer to your peculiar 
province and duty in this life, or your happiness in another. 

There are some persons who never arrive at any de^p, solid, or 



1727-1760.] watts. 485 

valuable knowledge in any science or my business of life, because 
they are perpetually fluttering over Lie surface of things in a 
curious and wandering search of infinite variety ; ever hearing, 
reading, or asking after something new, but impatient of any 
labor to lay up and preserve the ideas they have gained. Their 
souls may be compared to a looking-glass, that, wheresoever you 
turn it, it receives the images of all objects, but retains none. 

In order to preserve your treasure of ideas and the knowledge 
you have gained, pursue these advices, especially in your younger 
years. 

1. Recollect every day the things you have seen, or heard, or 
read, which may have made any addition to your understanding: 
read the writings of God and men with diligence and perpetual 
reviews : be not fond of hastening to a new book, or a new chap- 
ter, till you have well fixed and established in your mind what 
was useful in the last : make use of your memory in this manner, 
and you will sensibly experience a gradual improvement of it, 
while you take care not to load it to excess. 

2. Talk over the things which you have seen, heard, or learnt, 
with some proper acquaintance; this will make a fresh impres- 
sion upon your memory ; and if you have no fellow student at 
hand, none of equal rank with yourselves, tell it over to any of 
your acquaintance, where you can do it with propriety and de- 
cency ; and whether they learn any thing by it or no, your own 
repetition of it will be an improvement to yourself: and this prac- 
tice also will furnish you with a variety of words and copious 
language, to express your thoughts upon all occasions. 

3. Commit to writing some of the most consiaerable improve- 
ments which you daily make, at least such hints as may recall 
them again to your mind, when perhaps they are vanished and 
lost. At the end of every week, or month, or year, you may re- 
view your remarks for these two reasons : First, to judge of your 
own improvement, when you shall find that many of your younger 
collections are either weak and trifling ; or if they are just and 
proper, yet they are grown now so familiar to you, that you will 
thereby see your own advancement in knowlec-ge. And in the 
next place what remarks you find there worthy of your riper ob- 
servation, you may note them with a marginal star, instead of 
transcribing them, as being worthy of your second year's review, 
when the others are neglected. 

To shorten something of this labor, if the books which you read 
are your own, mark with a pen, or pencil, the most considerable 
things in them which you desire to remember. Thus you may 
read that book the second time over with half the trouble, by your 
eye running over the paragraphs which your pencil has noted. It 
is but a very weak objection against this practice to say, I shajl 

41* 



486 WATTS. [GEORGE II. 

spoi] my book ; for I persuade myself that you did not buy it as 
a bookseller, to sell it again for gain, but as a scholar to improve 
your mind by it ; and if the mind be improved, your advantage 
is abundant, though your book yield less money to your executors. 

Logic, or The Right Use of Reason, v. 
RULES OF IMPROVEMENT BY CONVERSATION. 

1. If we would improve our minds by conversation, it is 3 
great happiness to be acquainted with persons wiser than our 
selves. It is a piece of useful advice, therefore, to get the favor 
of their conversation frequently, as far as circumstances will 
allow : and if they happen to be a little reserved, use all obliging 
methods to draw out of them what may increase your own know- 
ledge. 

2. If you happen to be in company with a merchant or a sai~ 
lor, a farmer or a mechanic, a milkmaid or a spinster, lead them 
into a discourse of the matters of their own peculiar province or 
profession ; for every one knows, or should know, his own busi- 
ness best. In this sense a common mechanic is wiser than a phi- 
losopher. By this means you may gain some improvement in 
knowledge from every one you meet. 

3. Confine not yourself always to one sort of company, or to 
persons of the same party or opinion, either in matters of learning, 
religion, or the civil life, lest if you should happen to be nursed 
up or educated in early mistake, you should be confirmed and 
established in the same mistake, by conversing only with persons 
of the same sentiments. A free and general conversation with 
men of very various countries and of different parties, opinions, 
and practices, (so far as it may be done safely,) is of excellent use 
to undeceive us in many wrong judgments which we may have 
framed, and to lead us into juster thoughts. 

4. In mixed company, among acquaintance and strangers, 
endeavor to learn something from all. Be swift to hear, but be 
cautious of your tongue, lest you betray your ignorance, and per- 
haps offend some of those who are present too. 

5. Believe that it is possible to learn something from persons 
much below yourself. We are all short-sighted creatures ; oui 
views are also narrow and limited ; we often see but one side of 
a matter, and do not extend our sight far and wide enough to reach 
every thing that has a connection with the thing we talk of: we 
see but in part, and know but in part, therefore it is no wonder 
we form not right conclusions, because we do not survey the whole 
of any subject or argument. 

6. To make conversation more valuable and useful, whether it 
be in a designed or accidental visit, among persons of the same or 
of different sexes, after the necessary salutations are finished, and 



1727-1760.] watts. 487 

the stream of common talk begins to hesitate, or runs flat and low, 
let some one person take a book which may be agreeable to the 
whole company, and by common consent let him read in it ten 
lines, or a paragraph or two, or a few pages, till some word or 
sentence gives an occasion for any of the company to offer a 
thought or two relating to that subject. Interruption of the reader 
should be no blame, for conversation is the business ; whether it 
be to confirm what the author says, or to improve it ; to enlarge 
upon or to correct it ; to object against it, or to ask any question 
that is akin to it ; and let every one that pleases add his opinion 
and promote the conversation. When the discourse sinks again, 
or diverts to trifles, let him that reads pursue the page, and read 
on further paragraphs or pages, till some occasion is given by 
a word or sentence for a new discourse to be started, and that with 
the utmost ease and freedom. Such a method as this would pre- 
vent the hours of a visit from running all to waste ; and by this 
means, even among scholars, they will seldom find occasion for 
that too just and bitter reflection, I have lost my time in the com- 
pany of the learned. 

By such practice as this, young ladies may very honorably and 
agreeably improve their hours: while one applies herself to read- 
ing, the others employ their attention, even among the various 
artifices of the needle ; but let all of them make their occasional 
remarks or inquiries. This will guard a great deal of that pre- 
cious time from modish trifling impertinence or scandal, which 
might otherwise afford matter for painful repentance. 

Observe this rule in general ; whensoever it lies in your power 
to lead the conversation, let it be directed to some profitable point 
of knowledge or practice, so far as may be done with decency; 
and let not the discourse and the hours be suffered to run loose 
without aim or design : and when a subject is started, pass not 
hastily to another, before you have brought the present theme or 
discourse to some tolerable issue, or a joint consent to drop it. 

7. Attend ivith sincere diligence while any one of the company 
is declaring his sense of the question proposed; hear the argu- 
ment with patience, though it differ ever so much from your 
sentiments, for you yourself are very desirous to be heard with 
patience by others who differ from you. Let not your thoughts 
be active and busy all the while to find out something to contra 
diet, and by what means to oppose the speaker, especially in mat- 
ters which are not brought to an issue. This is a frequent and 
unhappy temper and practice. You should rather be intent and 
solicitous to take up the mind and meaning of the speaker, zealous 
to seize and approve all that is true in his discourse ; nor yet 
should you want courage to oppose where it is necessary ; but let 



488 WATTS. [GEORGE If. 

your modesty and patience, and a friendly temper, be as con- 
spicuous as your zeal. 

8. As you should carry about with you a constant and sincere 
sense of your own ignorance, so you should not be afraid not 
ashamed to confess this ignorance, by taking ail proper opportu- 
nities to ask and inquire for farther information ; whether it be 
the meaning of a word, the nature of a thing, the reason of a pro- 
position, or the custom of a nation. Never remain in ignorance 
for want of asking. 

9. Be not too forward, especially in the younger part of life, to 
determine any question in company with an infallible andperemp- 
tory sentence, nor speak with assuming airs, and with a decisive 
tone of voice. A young man in the presence of his elders should 
rather hear and attend, and weigh the arguments which are 
brought for the proof or refutation of any doubtful proposition; 
and when it is your turn to speak, propose your thoughts rather 
in way of inquiry. 

10. As you may sometimes raise inquiries for your own in- 
struction and improvement, and draw out the learning, wisdom, 
and fine sentiments of your friends, who perhaps may be too re- 
served or modest ; so at other times, if you perceive a person un- 
skilful in the matter of debate, you may, by questions aptly 
proposed in the Socratic method, lead him into a clearer know- 
ledge of the subject : then you become his instructor, in such a 
mp„nner as may not appear to make yourself his superior. 

11. Take heed of affecting always to shine in company above 
the rest, and to display the riches of your own understanding or 
your oratory, as though you would render yourself admirable to 
all that are present. This is seldom well taken in polite com- 
pany ; much less should you use such forms of speech as would 
insinuate the ignorance or dulness of those with whom you con- 
verse. 

12. Banish utterly out of all conversation, and especially out - 
of all learned and intellectual conference, every thing that tends 
to provoke passion, or raise a fire in the blood. Let no sharp 
language, no noisy exclamation, no sarcasms or biting jests be 
heard among you ; no perverse or invidious consequences be 
drawn from each other's opinions, and imputed to the person. 
All these things are enemies to friendship, and the ruin of free 
conversation. The impartial search of truth requires all calmness 
and serenity, all temper and candor ; mutual instruction can never 
be attained in the midst of passion, pride, and clamor, unless we 
suppose, in the midst of such a scene, there is a loud and pene- 
trating lecture read by both sides on the folly and shameful in- 
firmities of human nature. 



1727-1760.] MIDDLETON. 489 

13. To conclude : when you retire from company, then' con- 
verse with yourself in solitude, and inquire what you havx. learnt 
for the improvement of your understanding, or for the rectify 
ing your inclinations, for the increase of your virtues, or th<» 
meliorating your conduct and behaviour in any future parts of 
life. If you have seen some of your company candid, modest, 
humble in their manner, wise and sagacious, just and pious in 
their sentiments, polite and graceful, as well as clear and strong 
in their expression, and universally acceptable and lovely in their 
behavior, endeavor to impress the idea of all these upon your 
memory, and treasure them up for your imitation. 

Improvement of the Mind. 



CONYERS MIDDLETON. 1683—1750. 

Coxyers Middletost, a celebrated divine and critic, was the son of a 
clergyman, and born at Richmond, in Yorkshire, 1683. He was educated at 
Cambridge, and in 1717 received from the university the degree of Doctor of 
Divinity. His first published work was " A Full and Impartial Account of 
all the late Proceedings in the University of Cambridge against Dr. Bentley," 
which, says Dr. Monk, " was the first published specimen of a style, which, 
for elegance, purity, and ease, yields to none in the whole compass of the 
English language." in 1724 he visited Italy, and having taken a careful and 
near view of the ecclesiastical pomp and ceremonies of the papal church, he 
published, in 1729, his celebrated Letter from Rome, in which he attempted to 
show that " the religion of the present Romans was derived from that of their 
heathen ancestors," and that, in particular, the rites, ceremonies, dresses of 
the priests, and other matters in the Romish church, were taken from the 
pagan religion. It was received with great favor by the learned, and went 
through four editions in the author's lifetime. 

In 1741 appeared his greatest work, and that on which his fame chiefly 
tests, « The History of the Life of Marcus Tullius Cicero." It might more 
properly be called, The Life and Times of Cicero, since it is full, not only in 
.every thing that relates personally to the illustrious Roman orator, but gives 
an admirable picture of the Republic at the time he flourished. The style is 
remarkable for uniting clearness, strength, elegance, and richness in an unu- 
sual degree, and the work may justly be considered as a model of composition 
in the department of biography. The characters of the most prominent men 
of the time, he draws up with consummate skill, judgment, and taste ; and few 
historical works are more interesting, and none more instructive. In 1745 he 
published an account of the various specimens of ancient art which he had 
collected during his residence at Rome; and in 1749, "A Free Inquiry into 
Miraculous Powers." This was immediately attacked by many of the clergy, 
who maintained that the tendency of the book was to destroy the authority of 
miracles in general : but Middleton disclaimed all such intention. After vari- 
ous controversies upon religious subjects with some of the clergy of the day, 
he expired on the 28th of July, 1750. 



490 MIDDLETON. [GEORGE II. 

CICERO OFFERS HIMSELF TO THE BAR. 

Cicero had now run through all that course of discipline, which 
he lays down as necessary to form the complete orator : for, in 
his treatise on that subject, he gives us his own sentiments in the 
person of Crassus, on the institution requisite to that character ; 
declaring that no man ought to pretend to it, without being previ- 
ously acquainted with every thing worth knowing in art or nature ; 
that this is implied in the very name of an orator, whose profession 
it is to speak upon every subject which can be proposed to him ; 
and whose eloquence, without the knowledge of what he speaks, 
would be the prattle only and impertinence of children. He had 
learnt the rudiments of grammar, and languages, from the ablest 
teachers ; gone through the studies of humanity and the politer 
letters with the poet Archias ; been instructed in philosophy by 
the principal professors of each sect; Phasdrus the Epicurean, 
Philo the Academic, Diodotus the Stoic ; acquired a perfect 
knowledge of the law, from the greatest lawyers, as well as the 
greatest statesmen of Rome, the two Scsevolas ; all which accom- 
plishments were but ministerial and subservient to that on which 
his hopes and ambition were singly placed, the reputation of an 
orator : To qualify himself therefore particularly for this, he at- 
tended the pleadings of all the speakers of his time ; heard the 
daily lectures of the most eminent orators of Greece, and was per- 
petually composing somewhat at home, and declaiming under 
their correction : and that he might neglect nothing which could 
help in any degree to improve and polish his style, he spent the 
intervals of his leisure in the company of the ladies ; especially 
of those who were remarkable for a politeness of language, and 
whose fathers had been distinguished by a fame and reputation 
c)f their eloquence. 

Thus adorned and accomplished, he offered himself to the bar 
about the age of twenty-six ; not as others generally did, raw and 
ignorant of their business, and wanting to be formed to it by use 
and experience, but finished and qualified at once to sustain any 
£ause which should be committed to him. 

After he had given a specimen of himself to the city, in several 
private causes, he undertook the celebrated defence of S. Roscius 
of Ameria, in his twenty-seventh year ; the same age, as the 
learned have observed, in which Demosthenes first began to dis- 
tinguish himself in Athens ; as if, in these geniuses of the first 
magnitude, that was the proper season of blooming towards ma- 
turity. 

As 07 this defence he acquired a great reputation in his youth, 
so he reflects upon it with pleasure in old age, and recommends 
it to his son, as the surest way to true glory and authority in his 



1727-1760. J MIDDLETON. 491 

country ; to defend the innocent in distre3S, especially when they 
happen to be oppressed by the power of the great ; as I have often 
done, says he, in other causes, but particularly in that of Roscius 
against Sylla himself in the height of his power. A noble lesson 
to all advancers, to apply their talents to the protection of inno- 
cence and injured virtue ; and to make justice, not profit, the rule 
and end of their labors. 



CLOSE OF CICERO S CONSULSHIP. 

But before we close the account of the memorable events of 
this year, we must not omit the mention of one which distin- 
guished it afterwards as a particular era in the annals of Rome, 
the birth of Octavius, surnamed Augustus, which happened on 
the twenty-third of September. Velleius calls it an accession of 
glory to Cicero's consulship : but it excites speculations rather of 
a different sort, on the inscrutable methods of Providence, and the 
short-sighted policy of man, that in the moment when Rome was 
preserved from destruction, and its liberty thought to be established 
more firmly than ever, an infant should be thrown into the world, 
who, within the course of twenty years, effected what Catiline 
had attempted, and destroyed both Cicero and the republic. If 
Rome could have been saved by human counsel, it would have 
been saved by the skill of Cicero: but its destiny was now ap- 
proaching: for governments, like natural bodies, have, with the 
principles of their preservation, the seeds of ruin also essentially 
mixed in their constitution, which, after a certain period, begin to 
operate, and exert themselves to the dissolution of the vital frame. 
These seeds had long been fermenting in the bowels of the re- 
public, when Octavius came, peculiarly formed by nature, and 
instructed by art, to quicken their operation, and exalt them to 
maturity. 

Cicero's administration was now at an end, and nothing re- 
mained but to resign the consulship, according to custom, in an 
assembly of the people, and to take the usual oath, of his having 
discharged it with fidelity. This was generally accompanied with 
a speech from the expiring consul ; and after such a year, and 
from such a speaker, the city was in no small expectation of what 
Cicero would say to them : but Metellus, one of the new tribunes, 
who affected commonly to open their magistracy by some re- 
markable act, as a specimen of the measures which they intended 
to pursue, resolved to disappoint both the orator and the audience: 
for when Cicero had mounted the rostra, and was ready to per- 
form this last act of his office, the tribune would not suffer him to 
speak, or to do any thing more than barely to take the oath, de- 
claring, that he who had put citizens tc death unheard, ought not 



492 MIDDLETON. [GEORGE II. 

to be permitted to speak for himself:- upon which Cicero, who was 
never at a loss, instead of pronouncing the ordinary, form of the 
oath, exalting the tone of his voice, swore out aloud, so as all the 
people might hear him, that he had saved the republic and the city 
from ruin; which the multitude below confirmed with a uni- 
versal shout, and with one voice cried out, that what he had sworn 
was true. Thus the intended affront was turned, by his presence 
of mind, to his greater honor, and he was conducted from the forum 
to his house, with all possible demonstrations of respect by the 
whole city. 



CHARACTER OF POMPEY. 

Pompey had early acquired the surname of the Great, by that 
sort of merit which, from the constitution of the republic, neces- 
sarily made him great ; a fame and success in war, superior to 
what Rome had ever known in the most celebrated of her gene- 
rals. He had triumphed at three several times over the three 
different parts of the known world, Europe, Asia, Africa; and by 
his victories had almost doubled the extent, as well as the reve- 
nues, of the Roman dominion ; for, as he declared to the people 
on his return from the Mithridatic war, " he had found the lesser 
Asia the boundary, but left it the middle of their empire." He 
was about six years older than Ceesar; and while Cagsar, im- 
mersed in pleasures, oppressed with debts, and suspected by all 
honest men, was hardly able to show his head ; Pompey was 
nourishing in the height of power and glory, and by the consent 
of all parties placed at the head of the republic. This was the 
post that his ambition seemed to aim at, to be the first man in 
Rome ; the Leader, not the Tyrant of his country : for he more 
than once had it in his power to have made himself the master of 
it without any risk ; if his virtue, or his phlegm at least, had not 
restrained him : but he lived in a perpetual expectation of receiv- 
ing, from the gift of the people, what he did not care to seize by 
force ; and, by fomenting the disorders of the city, hoped to drive 
them to the necessity of creating him Dictator. It is an observa- 
tion of all the historians, that while Csesar made no difference of 
power, whether it was conferred or usurped : whether over those 
who loved, or those who feared him : Pompey seemed to value 
none but what was offered ; nor to have any desire to govern, but 
with the good will of the governed. What leisure he found from 
his wars, he employed in the study of polite letters, and especially 
of eloquence, in which he would have acquired great fame, if his 
genius had not drawn him to the more dazzling glory of arms : 
yet he pleaded several causes with applause, in the defence of his 
friends and clients ; and some of thern in conjunction with Cicero. 



1727-1760.] MIDDLBTON. 493 

His language was copious and elevated ; his sentiments just ; his 
voice sweet ; his action noble, and full of dignity. But his talents 
were better formed for arms, than the gown : for though, in both, 
he observed the same discipline, a perpetual modesty, temperance, 
and gravity of outward behaviour ; yet, in the license of camps, 
the example was more rare and striking. His person was ex- 
tremely graceful, and imprinting respect : yet with an air of re- 
serve and haughtiness, which became the general better than the 
citizen. His parts were plausible, rather than great; specious, 
rather than penetrating; and his view of politics but narrow ; for 
his chief instrument of governing was dissimulation; yet he had 
not always the art to conceal his real sentiments. As he was a 
better soldier than a statesman, so what he gained in the camp he 
usually lost in the city ; and though adored when abroad, was 
often affronted and mortified at home ; till the imprudent opposi- 
tion of the senate drove him to that ailiace with Crassus and 
Caesar, which proved fatal both to himself and the republic. He 
took in these two, not as the partners, but the ministers rather of 
his power; that, by giving them some share with him, he might 
make his own authority uncontrollable : he had no reason to ap 
prehend that they could ever prove his rivals ; since neither of 
them had any credit or character of that kind which alone could 
raise them above the laws ; a superior fame and experience in 
war. with the militia of the empire at their devotion : all this was 
purely his own ; till, by cherishing Caesar, and throwing into his 
hands the only thing which he wanted, arms and military com- 
mand, he made him at last too strong for himself, and never began 
to fear him till it was too late : Cicero warmly dissuaded both his 
union and his breach with Caesar ; and after the rupture, as 
warmly still, the thought of giving him battJe : if any of these 
counsels had been followed, Pompey had preserved his life and 
honor, and the republic its liberty. But he was urged to his fate 
by a natural superstition, and attention to those vain auguries with 
which he was nattered by all the haruspices : he had seen the 
same temper in Marius and Sylla, and observed the happy effects 
of it : but they assumed it only out of policy, he out of principle. 
They used it to animate their soldiers, when they had found a 
probable opportunity of fighting ; but he, against all prudence and 
probability, was encouraged by it to fight to his own ruin. He 
saw all his mistakes at last, when it was out of his power to cor- 
rect them ; and in his wretched flight from Pharsalia was forced 
to confess, that he had trusted too much to his hopes ; and that 
Cicero had judged better, and seen farther into things than he. 
The resolution of seeking refuge in Egypt, finished the sad catas- 
trophe of this great man : the father of the reigning prince hud 
been highly obliged to him for his protection at Rome, and resto- 

42 



494 BOLINGBROICE. [GEORGE II. 

ration to his kingdom : and the son had sent a considerable fleet 
to his assistance in the present war : but, in this ruin of his for- 
tunes, what gratitude was there to be expected from a court, 
governed by eunuchs and mercenary Greeks ? all whose politics 
turned, not on the honor of the king, but the establishment of theii 
own power ; which was likely to be eclipsed by the admission of 
Pompey. How happy had it been for him to have died in that 
sickness, when all Italy was putting up vows and prayers for his 
safety ! or, if he had fallen by chance of war on the plains of 
Pharsalia, in the defence of his country's liberty, he had died still 
glorious, though unfortunate ; but, as if he had been reserved for 
an example of the instability of human greatness, he, who a few 
days before commanded kings and consuls, and all the noblest 
of Rome, was sentenced to die by a council of slaves ; murdered 
by a base deserter ; cast out naked and headless on the Egyptian 
strand ; and when the whole earth, as Velleius says, had scarce 
been sufficient for his victories, could not find a spot upon it at 
last for a grave. 



HENRY ST. JOHN, VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE. 1678—1751. 

Heu rt St. John, son of Sir Henry St. John, of Battersea, Surrey county, was 
born October 1, 1678. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, and after spend 
ing many years of dissipation on the continent, he was, on his return, elected 
to parliament in 1701, when the Tories were in power. He was elevated tc 
the peerage in 1712, by the title of Viscount Bolingbroke ; but soon after the 
death of Queen Anne, fearing the course which might be taken against him 
by the new administration, he fled to France. On the 9th of August of the 
same year, (1718,) he was impeached by Walpole at the bar of the House of 
Lords of high-treason, and other high crimes and misdemeanors ; and as he 
failed to surrender himself to take his trial, a bill of attainder was passed 
against him by parliament, on the 10th of September. In the mean time he 
showed what were his principles, and where his heart was, by entering the 
service of the Pretender, as secretary. In 1723 he obtained a full pardon, 
and returned to England : his property was restored to him, but he was ex- 
cluded from the House of Lords. He then engaged in active opposition to 
the Whig ministry of Sir Robert Walpole, and published a great number of 
political tracts. 

In 1735 he suddenly withdrew to France, for reasons which have never 
been explained, and resided there seven years, during which time he pub- 
lished his « Letters on the Study of History," and a " Letter on the true Use 
of Retirement," both of which contain many valuable reflections. On the 
death of his father, 1742, he returned to take possession of the family estate 
at Battersea, and in 1749 published his " Letters on the Spirit of Patriotism." 
and the " Idea of a Patriot King." Most of his early friends, both literary 
and political, of whom were Pope, Swift, Gay, and Atterbury, were now 
gone, and he himself expired on the 15th of December, 1751. He bequeathed 
all his manuscripts, « as a legacy for traducing the memory of his own oid 



1727-1760.] BOLINGBROKE. 495 

friend Alexander Pope," to David Mallet, 1 a Scotchman, who, in 1754, pub- 
lished a complete edition of his lordship's works, in five volumes. Among 
them were found a series of Essays against revealed religion, which led to 
the caustic but just remark of Dr. Johnson, that " having loaded a blunder- 
buss, and pointed it against Christianity, he had not the courage to discharge it 
himself, but left half-a-crown to a hungry Scotchman to pull the trigger after 
his death." 

In Lord Bolingbroke's character as a man there is but little to respect, much 
to condemn. His philosophical writings are now but little read, and for their 
matter contain little that is worth reading. 2 As a rhetorician, however, he 
deserves some consideration in this work of ours, designed to mark the pro- 
gress of English style, and to bring under our notice the best writers. His 
style was a happy medium between that of the scholar and that of tne man 
of society — or rather it was a happy combination of the best qualities of both, 
"heightening the ease, freedom, fluency, and liveliness of elegant conversa- 
tion, with many of the deeper and richer tones of the eloquence of formal 
orations and books. The example he thus set has probably produced a very 
considerable effect in moulding the style of popular writing since his time." 3 

ABSURDITIES OF USELESS LEARNING. 

Some histories are to be read, some are to be studied, and some 
may be neglected entirely, not only without detriment, but with 
advantage. Some are the proper objects of one man's curiosity, 
some of another's, and some of all men's ; but all history is not 
an object of curiosity for any man. He who improperly, wan- 
tonly, and absurdly makes it so, indulges a sort of canine appetite ; 
the curiosity of one, like the hunger of the other, devours raven- 
ously, and without distinction, whatever falls in its way, but nei- 
ther of them digests. They heap crudity upon crudity, and 
nourish and improve nothing but their distemper. Some such 
characters I have known, though it is not the most common ex- 
treme into which men are apt to fall. One of them I knew in 
this country. He joined to a more than athletic strength of body, 
a prodigious memory, and to both a prodigious industry. He had 

1 There is not room here to go into the details of the controversy that arose from the base act of 
Mallet in maligning Pope, and the still baser feelings of Bolingbroke in first assenting to it, and after- 
wards rewarding it. Bolingbroke's pretended ground of offence was, that Pope, into whose hands 
he had placed his political tract, "The Patriot King," for publication, and distribution among his own 
(Bolingbroke's) friends, had published more than he ought. But he knew that Pope did it purely 
from his admiration of the tract, and a desire to have it more generally known. The real cause., 
therefore, of Bolingbroke's most ungrateful treatment of his old friend was, doubtless, that Pope bad 
bequeathed his property in his printed works to Warburton, rather than to himself. For a more par- 
ticular account of this, see Roscoe's Pope, vol. i. p. 557. 

2 " "When Tully attempted poetry, he became as ridiculous as Bolingbroke when he attempted phi- 
losophy and divinity; we look in vain for that genius which produced the Dissertation on Parties, 
In the tedious philosophical works, of which it is no exaggerated satire to say, that the reasoning «-f 
them is sophistical and inconclusive, the style diffuse and verbose, and the learning seemingly con 
tained in them not drawn from the originals, but picked up and purloined from French critics and 
translations."— W artorCs Pope, i. 119. 

3 See also some remarks on his style in t\e 12 ; Lecture of Br. Blair, and in Drake's Essays, vol 
Iv. p. 234. 



496 BOLINGBROKE. [GEORGE II. 

read almost constantly twelve or fourteen hours a day for five-and- 
twenty or thirty years, and had heaped together as much learn- 
ing as could be crowded into a head. In the course of my ac- 
quaintance with him, I consulted him once or twice, not oftener ; 
for I found this mass of learning of as little use to me as to the 
owner. The man was communicative enough ; but nothing was 
distinct in his mind. How could it be otherwise ? he had never 
spared time to think ; all was employed in reading. His reason 
had not the merit of common mechanism. When you press a 
watch, or pull a clock, they answer your question with precision; 
for they repeat exactly the hour of the day, and tell you neithei 
more nor less than you desire to know. But when you asked this 
man a question, he overwhelmed you by pouring forth all that the 
several terms or words of your question recalled to his memory ; 
and if he omitted any thing, it was that very thing to which the 
sense of the whole question should have led him or confined him. 
To ask him a question was to wind up a spring in his memory, 
that rattled on with vast rapidity and confused noise, till the force 
of it was spent ; and you went away with all the noise in your 
ears, stunned and uninformed. 

He who reads with discernment and choice, will acquire less 
learning, but more knowledge ; and as this knowledge is collected 
with design, and cultivated with art and method, it will be at all 
times of immediate and ready use to himself and others. 

Thus useful arms in magazines we place, 
All ranged in order, and disposed with grace ; 
Nor thus alone the curious eye to please, 
But to be found, when need requires, with ease. 

You remember the verses, my lord, in our friend's Essay on 
Criticism, which was the work of his childhood almost ; but is 
such a monument of good sense and poetry, as no other, that I 
know, has raised in his riper years. 

He who reads without this discernment and choice, and resolves 
to read all, will not have time, no, nor capacity either, to do any 
thing else. He will not be able to think, without which it is im- 
pertinent to read ; nor to act, without which it is impertinent to 
think. He will assemble materials with much pains, and pur- 
chase them at much expense, and have neither leisure nor skill to 
frame them into proper scantlings, or to prepare them for use. 
To what purpose should he husband his time, or learn architec- 
ture ? he has no design to build. But then to what purpose all 
these quarries of stone, all these mountains of sand and lime, all 
these forests of oak and deal ? 



1727-1760.] BOLINGBROKE. 497 

THE USE OF HISTORY. 

To teach and to inculcate the general principles of virtue, and 
the general rules of wisdom and good policy which result from 
such details of actions and characters, comes, for the most part, and 
always should come, expressly and directly into the design of 
those who are capable of giving such details : and, therefore, 
whilst they narrate as historians, they hint often as philosophers : 
they put into our hands, as it were, on every proper occasion, the 
end of a clue, that serves to remind us of searching, and to guide 
us in the search of that truth which the example before us either 
establishes or illustrates. If a writer neglects this part, we are 
able, however, to supply his neglect by our own attention and 
industry : and when he gives us a good history of Peruvians or 
Mexicans, of Chinese or Tartars, of Muscovites or Negroes, we 
may blame him, but we must blame ourselves much more, if we 
do not make it a good lesson of philosophy. This being the 
general use of history, it is not to be neglected. Every one may 
make it who is able to read, and to reflect on what he reads ; and 
every one who makes it will find, in his degree, the benefit that 
arises from an early acquaintance contracted in this manner with 
mankind. We are not only passengers or sojourners in this world, 
but we are absolute strangers at the first steps we make in it. 
Our guides are often ignorant, often unfaithful. By this map of 
the country, which history spreads before us, we may learn, if 
we please, to guide ourselves. In our journey through it, we are 
beset on every side. We are besieged sometimes, even in our 
strongest holds. Terrors and temptations, conducted by the pas- 
sions of other men, assault us ; and our own passions, that corre- 
spond with these, betray us. History is a collection of the jour- 
nals of those who have travelled through the same country, and 
been exposed to the same accidents : and their good and their ill 
success are equally instructive. In this pursuit of knowledge an 
immense field is opened to us : general hiscories, sacred and pro- 
fane ; the histories of particular countries, particular events, 
particular orders, particular men ; memorials, anecdotes, travels. 
But we must not ramble in this field without discernment or 
choice, nor even with these must we ramble too long 

THE WORLD OUR COUNTRY. 1 

Whatever is best is safest ; lies out of the reach of human 
power ; can neither be given nor taken away. Such is this great 

l What a beautiful idea, "the world our country— all mankind our countrymen." When this sen- 
timent shall be practically realized, (and the day seems to be fast drawing near when it will be,^ nil 
restrictions upon trade will be everywhere removed ; intercourse between nations will be as free 
2 I 4?.* 



498 BOLINGBROKE. [GEORGE II. 

and beautiful work of nature, the world. Such is the mind of 
man, which contemplates and admires the world, whereof it makes 
the noblest part. These are inseparably ours, and as long as we 
remain in one, we shall enjoy the other. Let us march, there- 
fore, intrepidly wherever we are led by the course of human ac- 
cidents. Wherever they lead us, on what coast soever we are 
thrown by them, we shall not find ourselves absolutely strangers. 
We shall meet with men and women, creatures of the same figure, 
endowed with the same faculties, and born under the same laws 
of nature. 

We shall see the same virtues and vices, flowing from the same 
principles, but varied in a thousand different and contrary modes, 
according to that infinite variety of laws and customs which is 
established for the same universal end, the preservation of society. 
We shall feel the same revolution of seasons, and the same sun 
and moon will guide the course of our year. The same azure 
vault, bespangled with stars, will be everywhere spread over our 
heads. There is no part of the world from whence we may not 
admire those planets which roll, like ours, in different orbits, 
round the same central sun ; from whence we may not discover 
an object still more stupendous, that army of fixed stars hung up 
in the immense space of the universe ; innumerable suns, whose 
beams enlighten and cherish the unknown worlds which roll around 
them : and whilst I am ravished by such contemplations as these, 
whilst my soul is thus raised up to heaven, it imports me little 
what ground I tread upon. 

FORTUNE NOT TO BE TRUSTED. 

The sudden invasion of an enemy overthrows such as are not 
on their guard ; but they who foresee the war, and prepare them- 
selves for it before it breaks out, stand without difficulty the first 
and the fiercest onset. I learned this important lesson long ago, 
and never trusted to fortune, even while she seemed to be at peace 
with me. The riches, the honors, the reputation, and all the ad- 
vantages which her treacherous indulgence poured upon me, I 
placed so, that she might snatch them away without giving me 
any disturbance. I kept a great interval between me and them. 
She took them, but she could not tear them from me. No man 
suffers by bad fortune but he who has been deceived by good. If 
we grow fond of her gifts, fancy that they belong to us, and are 

cu between individuals of the same nation ; and national governments will be supported as local go- 
vernments now are— by direct taxes according to property — the only equitable mode. I cannot but 
here quote a fine remark from that valuable book entitled " Guesses at Truth," by the brothers 
Hare: "A statesman may do much for commerce.— most by leaving it alone. A river never flows 
bo smoothly as when it follows its own course, without either aid or check. Let it make its own 
bed : it will do sg better than you can." 



1727-1760.] DODDRIDGE. 499 

perpetually to remain with us; if we lean upon them, and expect 
to be considered for them, we shall sink into all the bitterness of 
grief, as soon as these false and transitory benefits pass away; as 
soon as our vain and childish minds, unfraught with solid plea- 
sures, become destitute even of those which are imaginary. But* 
if we do not suffer ourselves to be transported with prosperity, 
neither shall we be reduced by adversity. Our souls will be 
proof against the dangers of both these states : and having 
explored our strength, we shall be sure of it ; for in the midst 
of felicity we shall have tried how we can bear misfortune. 



PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 1702—1751. 

Few men have exerted a more happy, holy, and wide-spread influence 
upon the world, than the " dissenting'* minister, Philip Doddridge. He was 
born in London, in 1702, and at an early age he became the pupil of Mr. 
John Jennings, who kept an academy at Kibworth, in Leicestershire, and in 
1722 he entered upon the ministry at the same place. On the death of Mr. 
Jennings he succeeded to his place, but in 1729, being invited by the " dis- 
senting" congregation of that place to become their pastor, he removed there. 
Here for nearly twenty-two years he labored with great zeal and most ex- 
emplary piety, as pastor of the church, and as the principal of the academy, 
with the highest credit to himself, and benefit to those under his care. But 
his health declining in consequence of his great labors, he took a voyage to 
Lisbon, in the hope of deriving benefit from tire relaxation and change of air 
and climate. But all in vain ; and he died at Lisbon thirteen days after his 
arrival, October 26, 1751. 

Of the writings of Dr. Doddridge, too much, we think, can hardly be said 
in praise. His " Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul," forms a body of 
practical divinity and Christian experience that has never been surpassed by 
any work of the same nature. Like the works of Baxter, Bunyan, and Watts, 
it is a classic of the religious world. 1 His " Sermons on the Education of 
Children." " Sermons to Young People," " Ten Sermons on the Power and 
Grace of Christ," "A Course of Lectures on the Principal Subjects in Pneu- 
matology, Ethics, and Divinity," 2 are held in the highest estimation by all 
ranks of Christians. Another work, still popular, is « Some Remarkable Pas- 
sages in the Life of Colonel James Gardiner, who was slain by the Rebels at 
the Battle of Preston Pans, September 21, 1745." 3 But his most elaborate 

1 "Doddridge's heart was made up of all the kindlier affections of our nature ; and was wholly 
devoted to the salvation of men's souls. Whatever he did, he appears to have done 'to the glory 
of God.' He read, he wrote, he preached— with a zeal which knew of no abatement, and with an 
earnestness which left no doubt of the sincerity of his motives. He was snatched from his Sock and 
the world— both of which had been enlightened by his labors— in the prime of his life, and in the full 
possession of his faculties : but he who has left such fruits behind him, cannot be said to have imma- 
turely perished." — Dibdin. 

2 "And first, as a universal storehouse, necessary to him in the conduct of his theological pur 
suits, Doddridge's Lectures."— Btikop of Durham's Charge. 

3 This Colonel Gardiner was a brave Scottish officer, who had served with distinction under Marl- 
borough. From the life of a gay libertine he was suddenly converted to one of the strictest piety, 



500 DODDRIDGE. [GEORGE II. 

work, the result of many years' study, was " The Family Expositor, contain- 
ing a Version and Paraphrase of the New Testament, with Critical Notes, and 
a Practical Improvement of Each Section." This admirable compendium of 
Scriptural knowledge has, from its solid learning, critical acuteness, and the 
persuasive earnestness of its practical reflections, ever been held in the high- 
est estimation by the Christian world, 1 and has been translated into several 
languages. To Doddridge, also, are we indebted for some of our best sacred 
lyrics, and for that epigram which Dr. Johnson calls "one of the finest in the 
English language." 2 His letters, also, are admirable specimens of epistolary 
writing, and for their easy and natural style are not unlike those of Cowper. 

COUNTRY LIFE LETTER TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 

You know I love a country life, and here we have it in perfec- 
tion. I am roused in the morning with the chirping of sparrows, 
the cooing of pigeons, the lowing of kine, the bleating of sheep, 
and, to compJete the concert, the grunting of swine and neighing 
of horses. We have a mighty pleasant garden and orchard, and 
a fine arbor under some tall shady limes, that form a kind of lofty 
dome, of which, as a native of the great city, you may perhaps 
catch a glimmering idea, if I name the cupola of St. Paul's. And 
then, on the other side of the house, there is a large space which 
we call a wilderness, and which, I fancy, would please you ex- 
tremely. The ground is a dainty green sward ; a brook runs 
sparkling through the middle, and there are two large fish-ponds 
at one end ; both the ponds and the brook are surrounded with 
willows ; and there are several shady walks under the trees, be- 
sides little knots of young willows interspersed at convenient dis- 
tances. This is the nursery of our lambs and calves, Avith whom 
I have the honor to be intimately acquainted. Here I generally 
spend the evening, and pay my respects to the setting sun, when 
the variety and the beauty of the prospect inspire a pleasure that 
I know not how to express. I am sometimes so transported with 

by wh3t he considered a supernatural interference, namely, a visible representation of Christ upon 
the cross, suspended in the air, amidst an unusual blaze of light, and accompanied by a declaration 
of the words, " Oh, sinner ! did I suffer this for thee, and are these the returns ?" From the period 
Df this vision till his death, twenty-six years afterward, Colonel Gardiner maintained the life of a 
sincere Christian, so far as the military profession is compatible therewith. But the time is to come 
when the Christian will say what was said by those in the first and second centuries when called to 
mlistin the Roman armies, "I am a Christian, and therefore cannot fight." The time is to come 
when the military profession will be deemed not only disreputable but criminal: for what can be 
more diametrically opposite than the spirit of the gospel and the spirit of war! 

» "In reading the New Testament," says the Bishop of Durham, "I recommend Doddridge's 
Family Expositor, as an impartial interpreter and faithful monitor. I know of no expositor who 
writes so luanv an va ntages as Doddridge." 

2 Live while you live, the epicure would say, 

And seize the pleasures of the present day. 

Live while you live, the sacred preacher cries, 

And give to God each moment as it flies. ■ 

Lord, in my views let both united be, 

1 live in pleasure wnen I live to Thee. 



1727-1760.] DODDRIDGE. 501 

these inanimate beauties, that I fancy I am like Adam in Para- 
dise ; and it is my only misfortune that I want an Eve, and have 
none but the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, for my 
companions. 

LIVING NEAR TO GOD LETTER TO HIS WIFE. 

I hope, my dear, you will not be offended when I tell you that 
I am, what I hardly thought it possible, without a miracle, that 1 
should have been, very easy and happy without you. My days 
begin, pass, and end. in pleasure, and seem short because they are 
so delightful. It may seem strange to say it, but really so it is, I 
hardly feel that I want any thing. I often think of you, and pray 
for you, and bless God on your account, and please myself with 
the hope of many comfortable days, and weeks, and years with 
you ; yet I am not at all anxious about your return, or, indeed, 
about any thing else. And the reason, the great and sufficient 
reason is, that I have more of the presence of God with me than 
I remember ever to have enjoyed in any one month of my life- 
He enables me to live for him, and to live with him. When ] 
awake in the morning, which is always before it is light, I ad- 
dress myself to him, and converse with him, speak to him while 
I am lighting my candle and putting on my clothes ; and have 
often more delight before I come out of my chamber, though it be 
hardly a quarter of an hour after my awaking, than I have en- 
joyed for whole da}rs, or, perhaps, weeks of my life. He meets 
me in my study, in secret, in family devotions. It is pleasant to 
read, pleasant to compose, pleasant to converse with my friends 
at home ; pleasant to visit those abroad — the poor, the sick ; plea- 
sant to write letters of necessary business by which any good can 
be done ; pleasant to go out and preach the gospel to poor souls, 
of which some are thirsting for it, and others dying without it; 
pleasant in the week-day to think how near another Sabbath is , 
but, oh ! much, much more pleasant, to think how near eternity 
is, and how short the journey through this wilderness, and that it 
is but a step from earth to heaven. 

I cannot forbear, in these circumstances, pausing a little, and 
considering whence this happy scene just at this time arises, and 
whither it tends. Whether God is about to bring upon me any 
peculiar trial, for which this is to prepare me ; whether he is 
shortly about to remove me from the earth, and so is giving me 
more sensible prelibations of heaven, to prepare me for it ; or 
whether he intends to do some peculiar services by me just at 
this time, which many other circumstances lead me sometimes to 
hope ; or whether it be that, in answer to your prayers, and in 
compassion to that distress which I must otherwise have felt in 
the absence and illness of her who has been so exceedingly dear 



502 DODDRIDGE. [GEORGE II. 

to me, and was never more sensibly dear to me than now, lie is 
pleased to favor me with this teaching experience ; in conse- 
quence of which, I freely own I am less afraid than ever of any 
event that can possibly arise, consistent with his nearness to my 
heart, and the tokens of his paternal and covenant love. I will 
muse no further on the cause. It is enough, the effect is so 
blessed. 

THE TRUE USE TO BE MADE OF GENIUS AND LEARNING. 

Hath God given you genius and learning? It was not that you 
might amuse or deck yourself with it, and kindle a blaze which 
should only serve to attract and dazzle the eyes of men. It was 
intended to be the means of leading both yourself and them to the 
Father of lights. And it will be your duty, according to the pe- 
culiar turn of that genius and capacity, either to endeavor to im- 
prove and adorn human life, or, by a more direct application of it 
to Divine subjects, to plead the cause of religion, to defend its 
truths, to enforce and recommend its practice, to deter men from 
courses which would be dishonorable to God and fatal to them- 
selves, and to try the utmost efforts of all the solemnity and tender- 
ness with which you can clothe your addresses, to lead them into 
the paths of virtue and happiness. 

WORLDLY CARES. 

Young people are generally of an enterprising disposition : 
having experienced comparatively little of the fatigues of busi- 
ness, and of the disappointments and encumbrances of life, they 
easily swallow them up, and annihilate them in their imagina- 
tion, and fancy that their spirit, their application, and address, 
will be able to encounter and surmount every obstacle or hinder- 
ance. But the event proves it otherwise. Let me entreat you, 
therefore, to be cautious how you plunge yourself into a greater 
variety of business than you are capable of managing as you 
ought, that is, in consistency with the care of your souls, and the 
service of God, which certainly ought not on any pretence to be 
neglected. It is true, indeed, that a prudent regard to your worldly 
interest will require such a caution; as it is obvious to every care- 
ful observer, that multitudes are undone by grasping at more than 
they can conveniently manage. Hence it has frequently been 
seen, that while they have seemed resolved to be rich, they have 
pierced chemselves through with many sorrows, have ruined their 
own families, and drawn down many others into desolation with 
them Whereas, could they have been contented with moderate 
employments, and moderate gains, they might have prospered in 
their business, and might, by sure degrees, under a Divine bless- 



1727-1760.] DODDRIDGE. 503 

ing, have advanced to great and honorable increase. But if there 
was no danger at all to be apprehended on this head ; if you 
were as certain of becoming rich, and great, as you are of per- 
plexing and fatiguing yourself in the attempt, — consider, I beseech 
you, how precarious these enjoyments are. Consider how often 
a plentiful table becomes a snare, and that which would have been 
for a man's welfare becomes a trap. Forget not that short lesson, 
which is so comprehensive of the highest wisdom — One thing is 

NEEDFUL. 

THE SABBATH. 1 

Lord of the Sabbath, hear our vows, 
On this thy day, in this thy house ; 
And own, as grateful sacrifice, 
The songs which from the desert rise. 

Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love; 
But there's a nobler rest above ; 
To that our laboring souls aspire 
"With ardent pangs of strong desire. 

No more fatigue, no more distress ; 
Nor sin nor hell shall reach the place; 
No groans to mingle with the songs 
Which warble from immortal tongues. 

No rude alarms of raging foes ; 
No cares to break the long repose; 
No midnight shade, no clouded sun, 
But sacred, high, eternal noon. 

long-expected day, begin; 
Dawn on tiiese realms of wo and sin ; 
Fain would we leave this weary road, 
And sleep hi death, to rest with God. 

SELF-EXAMINATION. 

Return, my roving heart, return, 

And chase these shadowy forms no more ; 

Seek out some solitude to mourn, 
And thy forsaken God implore. 

Wisdom and pleasure dwell at home ; 

Retired and silent seek them there : 
True conquest is ourselves t' o'ercome, 

True strength to break the tempter's snare. 

And thou, my God, whose piercing eye 

Distinct surveys each deep recess, 
In these abstracted hours draw nigh, 

And with thy presence fill the place. 

1 In printing these hymns the best London edition of Doddridge's works has been carefully fol- 
lowed. In a word, the hymns are Doddridge's, and not the " improvements" u; 01 modern compilers 
Of hjmn books. 



504 JOSEPH BUTLER. [GEORGE II. 

Through all the mazes of ray heart, 

My search let heavenly wisdom guide 
And still its radiant beams impart. 

Till all be search'd and purified. 

Then, with the visits of thy love, 

Vouchsafe my inmost soul to cheer ; 
Till every grace shall join to prove 

That God hath fix'd his dwelling here. 



ENTERING INTO COVENANT. 

happy day, that fix'd my choice 
On thee, my Saviour and my God ! 

Well may this glowing heart rejoice, 
And tell its raptures all abroad. 

O happy bond, that seals my vows 
To Him, who merits all my love ! 

Let cheerful anthems fill the house, 
While to that sacred shrine I move. 

'Tis done ; the great transaction's done : 
I am my Lord's, and he is mine : 

He drew me, and I follow'd on, 

Charm'd to confess the voice divine. 

Now rest, my long-divided heart, 
Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest ; 

With ashes who would grudge to part, 
When call'd on angels' bread to feast? 

High Heaven, that heard the solemn vow, 
That vow renew'd, shall daily hear : 

Till, in life's latest hour, I bow, 

And bless in death a bond so dear. 



JOSEPH BUTLER. 1692—1752. 

Joseph Butler, the celebrated author of the "Analogy," was born at 
Wantage, in Berkshire, in 1692. Being of a Presbyterian family, he was sent 
to the " dissenting" academy at Tewkesbury, with the view of entering the 
ministry. It was here that he gave the first proofs of the peculiar bent of 
his mind to abstruse speculations, in some acute and ingenious remarks on 
Dr. Samuel Clarke's " Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God,'' 
in private letters addressed to the author. He also gave much attention to 
the points of controversy between the members of the " established" church 
and the " dissenters," the result of which was that he went over to the former. 
After som° little opposition from his father, he was allowed to follow his in- 
clination an,i in 1714 removed to Oxford. Having "taken orders," he was, 
in 1718, appointed preacher at the Rolls' Chapel, which station he occupied 
about eight years, when he published a volume of sermons delivered in that 



1727-1760.] JOSEPH BUTLER. 505 

chapel, which gave him the highest reputation as a profound and original 
thinker. 

After various preferments in the church, in 1736 he published his great 
V/ork, "The Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution 
and Course of Nature." His object in it is to demonstrate the connection be- 
tween the present and future state, and to show that there could be but one 
author of both, and consequently but one general system of moral government 
by which they must be regulated. In the execution of this task, his success 
and triumph were complete. He has built up a solid granite rampart, of such 
height and strength, for the defence of revealed religion, that all the missiles 
of infidels, from that day to this, have been hurled against it in vain. In 
1738 he was promoted to the bishopric of Bristol, and in 1750 to that of Dur- 
ham, the highest preferment. He held this but a short time, as he died at 
Bath in June, 1752. 

The character of Butler was every thing that would be expected from his 
writings. Of piety most fervent, and of morals most pure, he lived the life, 
while he possessed the faith of the Christian. " No man," says his biographer, 
u ever more thoroughly possessed the meekness of wisdom. Neither the con- 
sciousness of intellectual strength, nor the just reputation which he had thereby 
attained, nor the elevated station to which he had been raised, in the slightest 
degree injured the natural modesty of his character, or the mildness and 
sweetness of his temper." His liberality also was equal to his means. His 
income he considered as belonging to his station, and not to himself 5 and so 
thoroughly was this feeling of his understood, that his relatives never in- 
dulged the expectation of pecuniary benefit from his death. He well under- 
stood the true use of money, that it is worthless and contemptible except as a 
means of doing good. It was his remark on his promotion to Durham : " It 
would be a melancholy thing at the close of life to have no reflections to en- 
tertain one's self with, but that one had spent the revenues of the bishopric of 
Durham in a sumptuous course of living, and enriched one's friends with the 
promotions of it, instead of having really set one's self to do good, and to pro- 
mote worthy men." How much such a character honors religion! How 
much its opposite disgraces it ! 

The following just and eloquent remarks upon the design of Butler's Ana- 
logy are taken from the admirable analysis of that great work by Bishop Wil- 
son, prefixed to his edition of it. 1 

" Bishop Butler is one of those creative geniuses who give a character to 
their times. His great work, ' The Analogy of Religion,' has fixed the ad- 
miration of all competent judges for nearly a century, and will continue to be 
studied so long as the language in which he wrote endures. The mind of a 
master pervades it. The author chose a theme infinitely important, and he 
has treated it with a skill, a force, a novelty and talent, which have left little 
for others to do after him. He opened the mine and exhausted it himself. 
A discretion which never oversteps the line of prudence, is in him united 
with a penetration which nothing can escape. There are in his writings a 
vastness of idea, a reach and generalization of reasoning, a native simplicity 
and grandeur of thought, which command and fill the mind. At the same 
time, his illustrations are so striking and familiar. as to instruct as well as per- 
suade. Nothing is violent, nothing far-fetched, nothing pushed beyond its fair 
limits, nothing fanciful or weak: a masculine power of argument runs through 

1 See also a most excellent introduction to Butlnr's Analogy by Rev. Albert Barnea 

43 



506 JObEPH BUTLER. [GEORGE II 

the whole. All bespeaks that repose of mind, that tranquillity which springs 
from a superior understanding, and an intimate acquaintance with every part 
of his subject. He grasps firmly his topic, and insensibly communicates to 
his reader the calmness and conviction which he possesses himself. He em- 
braces with equal ease the greatest and the smallest points connected with 
his argument. He often throws out as he goes along, some general principle 
which seems to cost him no labor, and yet which opens a whole field of con- 
templation before the view of the reader. 

" Butler was a philosopher in the true sense of the term. He searches for 
wisdom wherever he can discern its traces. He puts forth the keenest saga- 
city in his pursuit of his great object, and never turns aside till he reaches and 
seizes it. Patient, silent, unobtrusive investigation was his forte. His powers 
of invention were as fruitful as his judgment was sound. Probably no book 
in the compass of theology is so full of the seeds of things, to use the expres- 
sion of a kindred genius, 1 as the ' Analogy.' 

" He was a man raised up for the age in which he lived. The wits and 
infidels of the reign of our Second Charles, had deluged the land with the 
most unfair, and yet plausible writings against Christianity. A certain fear- 
lessness as to religion seemed to prevail. There was a general decay of piety 
and zeal. Many persons treated Christianity as if it were an agreed point, 
amongst all people of discernment, that it had been found out to be fictitious. 
The method taken by these enemies of Christianity, was to magnify and urge 
objections, more or less plausible, against particular doctrines or precepts, 
which were represented as forming a part of it; and which, to a thoughtless 
mind, were easily made to appear extravagant, incredible, and irrational. 
They professed to admit the Being and Attributes of the Almighty; but they 
maintained that human reason was sufficient for the discovery and establish- 
ment of this fundamental truth, as well as for the development of those moral 
precepts, by which the conduct of life should be regulated; and tiiey boldly 
asserted, that so many objections and difficulties might be urged against Chris- 
tianity, as to exclude it from being admitted as Divine, by any thoughtful and 
enlightened person. 

" These assertions Butler undertook to refute. He was a man formed for 
such a task. He knew thoroughly what he was about. He had a mind to 
weigh objections, and to trace, detect, and silence cavils. Accordingly, he 
came forward in all the self-possession, and dignity, and meekness of truth, 
to meet the infidel on his own ground. He takes the admission of the unbe- 
liever, that God is the Creator and Ruler of the natural world, as a principle 
conceded. From this point he sets forward, and pursues a course of argu- 
ment so cautious, so solid, so forcible ; and yet so diversified, so original, so 
convincing; as to carry along with him, almost insensibly, those who have 
once put themselves under his guidance. His insight into the constitution 
and course of nature is almost intuitive ; and the application of his knowledge 
is so surprisingly skilful and forcible, as to silence or to satisfy every fair an- 
tagonist. He traces out every objection with a deliberation which nothing 
can disturb; and shows the fallacies from whence they spring, with a preci- 
sion and acuteness which overwhelm and charm the reader. 

" Accordingly, students of all descriptions have long united in the praise of 
Bntler He is amongst the few classic authors of the first rank in modern 
literature He takes his place with Bacon, and Pascal, and Newton, those 

l Lord Bacon. 



1727-1760.] JOSEPH BUTLER. 507 

mighty geniuses who opened new sources of information on the most import- 
ant subjects, and commanded the love and gratitude of mankind. If his 
powers were not fully equal to those of these most extraordinary men, they 
were only second to them. He was, in his own line, nearly what they were 
in the inventions of science, and the adaptation of mathematics to philosophy 
founded on experiment. He was, of like powers of mind, of similar calm and 
penetrating sagacity, of the same patience and perseverance in pursuit, of 
kindred acuteness and precision in argument, of like force and power in his 
conclusions. His objects were as great, his mind as simple, his perception of 
truth as distinct, his comprehension of intellect nearly as vast, his aim as ele- 
vated, his success as surprising." 



CHRISTIANITY A SCHEME IMPERFECTLY COMPREHENDED. 

Christianity is a scheme quite beyond our comprehension. The 
moral government of God is exercised, by gradually conducting 
things so in the course of his providence, that every one, at length 
and upon the whole, shall receive according to his deserts ; and 
neither fraud nor violence, but truth and right, shall finally pre- 
vail. Christianity is a particular scheme under this general plan 
of Providence, and a part of it, conducive to its completion, with 
regard to mankind : consisting itself also of various parts, and a 
mysterious economy, which has been carrying on from the time 
the world came into its present wretched state, and is still carry- 
ing on, for its recovery, by a divine person, the Messiah ; " who 
is to gather together in one the children of God that are scattered 
abroad," and establish " an everlasting kingdom, wherein dwelleth 
righteousness." And in order to it, after various manifestations 
of things relating to this great and general scheme of Providence, 
through a succession of many ages ; after various dispensations, 
looking forward and preparatory to this final salvation, " In the 
fulness of time," when Infinite Wisdom thought fit, he, " being 
in the form of God, made himself of no reputation, and took upon 
him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men ; 
and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself, and 
became obedient to death, even the death of the cross wherefore 
God also hath highly exalted him, and given him a name which 
is above every name ; that at the name of Jesus every knee should 
bow, of things in heaven, and things in the earth, and things 
under the earth ; and that every tongue should confess that Jesus 
Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." Parts likewise, 
of this economy are, the miraculous mission of the Holy Ghost, 
and his ordinary assistances given to good men ; the invisible 
government which Christ at present exercises over his church ; 
that which he himself refers to in these words, " In my Father's 
house are many mansions — I go to prepare a place for you ;" and 
his future return to "judge the world in righteousness," and com- 



508 JOSEPH BUTLEE. [GEOKGE II. 

pletely re-establish the kingdom of God. " For the Father judgeth 
no man, but hath committed all judgment unto the Son ; that all 
men should honor the Son, even as they honor the Father." " All 
power is given unto him in heaven and in earth." " And he 
must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. Then 
cometh the end, when he shall have delivered up the kingdom to 
God, even the Father ; when he shall have put down all rule, and 
all authority and power. And when all things shall be subdued 
unto him, then shall the Son also himself be subject unto him that 
put all things under him, that God may be ail in all." Now little, 
surely, need be said to show, that this system, or scheme of 
things, is but imperfectly comprehended by us. The Scripture 
expressly asserts it to be so. And indeed one cannot read a pas- 
sage relating to this "great mystery of godliness," but what im- 
mediately runs up into something which shows us our ignorance 
in it; as everything in nature shows us our ignorance in the con- 
stitution of nature. And whoever will seriously consider that 
part of the Christian scheme which is revealed in Scripture, will 
find so much more unrevealed, as will convince him, that, to all 
the purposes of judging and objecting, we know as little of it as 
of the constitution of nature. Our ignorance, therefore, is as 
much an answer to our objections against the perfection of one, as 
against the perfection of the other. 

It is obvious, too, that in the Christian dispensation, as much as 
in the natural scheme of things, means are made use of to accom- 
plish ends. And the observation of this furnishes us with the 
same answer to objections against the perfection of Christianity, 
as to objections of the like kind against the constitution of nature. 
It shows the credibility, that the things objected against, how 
" foolish" soever they appear to men, may be the very best means 
of accomplishing the very best ends. And their appearing "fool- 
ishness" is no presumption against this, in a scheme so greatly 
beyond our comprehension. 

The credibility, that the Christian dispensation may have been, 
all along, carried on by general laws, no less than the course of 
nature, may require to be more distinctly made out. Consider, 
then, upon what ground it is we say, that the whole common 
course of nature is carried on according to general foreordained 
laws. We know, indeed, several of the general laws of matter ; 
and a great part of the natural behavior of living agents is reduci- 
ble to general laws. But we know, in a manner, nothing, by 
what laws storms and tempests, earthquakes, famine, pestilence, 
become the instruments of destruction to mankind. And the laws, 
by which persons born into the world at such a time and place, 
are of such capacities, geniuses, tempers ; the laws, by which 
thoughts come into our mind, in a multitude of cases ; and by 



1727-1760.] JOSEPH BUTLER. 509 

which innumerable things happen, of the greatest influence upon 
the affairs and state of the world— these laws are so wholly un- 
known to us, that we call the events, which come to pass by them, 
accidental ; though all reasonable men know certainly that there 
cannot, in reality, be any such thing as chance ; and conclude 
that the things which have this appearance are the result of gene- 
ral laws, and may be reduced into them. It is then but an ex- 
ceeding little way, and in but a very few respects, that we can 
trace up the natural course of things before us to general laws. 
And it is only from analogy that we conclude the whole of it to 
be capable of being reduced into them ; only from our seeing that 
part is so. It is from our finding that the course of nature, in 
some respects and so far, goes on by general laws, that we con- 
clude this of the rest. And if that be a just ground for such a 
conclusion, it is a just ground also, if not to conclude, yet to appre- 
hend, to render it supposable and credible, which is sufficient for 
answering objections, that God's miraculous interpositions may 
have been, all along, in like manner, by general laws of wisdom. 
Thus, that miraculous powers should be exerted at such times, 
upon such occasions, in such degrees and manners, and with 
regard to such persons, rather than others ; that the affairs of the 
world, being permitted to go on in their natural course so far, should, 
just at such a point, have a new direction given them by miracu- 
lous interpositions ; that these interpositions should be exactly in 
such degrees and respects only ; all this may have been by gene- 
ral laws. These laws are unknown, indeed, to us ; but no more 
unknown than the laws from whence it is that some die as soon 
as they are born, and others live to extreme old age ; that one 
man is so superior to another in understanding ; with innumera- 
ble more things, which, as was before observed, we cannot reduce 
to any laws or rules at all, though it is taken for granted they are 
as much reducible to general ones as gravitation. Now, if the 
revealed dispensations of Providence, and miraculous interposi- 
tions, be by general laws, as well as God's ordinary government 
in the course of nature, made known by reason and experience ; 
there is no more reason to expect that every exigence, as it arises, 
should be provided for by these general laws or miraculous inter- 
positions, than that every exigence in nature should, by the gene- 
ral laws of nature : yet there might be wise and good reasons, 
that miraculous interposition should be by general laws, and that 
these laws should not be broken in upon, or deviated from, by 
other miracles. 

Upon the whole, then, the appearance of deficiencies and irregu- 
larities in nature is owing to its being a scheme but in part maae 
known, and of such a certain particular kind in other respects. 
Now we see no more reason why the frame and course of naturo 

43* 



510 BERKELEY. [GEORGE II. 

should be such a scheme, than why Christianity should. And 
that the former is such a scheme, renders it credible that the lat- 
ter, upon supposition of its truth, may be so too. And as it is 
manifest that Christianity is a scheme revealed but in part, and a 
scheme in which means are made use of to accomplish ends, like 
to that of nature ; so the credibility, that it may have all along 
been carried on by general laws, no less than the course of nature, 
has been distinctly proved. And from all this it is beforehand 
credible that there might, I think probable that there would, be 
the like appearances of deficiencies and irregularities in Chris- 
tianity as in nature ; i. e., that Christianity would be liable to the 
like objections as the frame of nature. And these objections are 
answered by these observations concerning Christianity ; as the 
like objections against the frame of nature are answered by the 
like observations concerning the frame of nature. 



GEORGE BERKELEY. 1684—1753. 

George Berkeley, the celebrated Bishop of Cloyne, in Ireland, was the 
son of William Berkeley, of the county of Kilkenny, and was born on the 12th 
of March, 1684, and received his education at Trinity College, Dublin, tc 
which he was admitted as a fellow in 1707. In 1709 he published Ins 
" Theory of Vision," in which he shows that the connection between the 
sight and the touch is the effect of habit, and that a person born blind, and 
suddenly made to see, would at first be unable to tell how the objects of sight 
would affect the sense of touch. The year following he ptiblished that work 
by which his name is most known, " The Principles of Human Knowledge ;" 
in which he attempts to disprove the existence of matter, and to demon- 
strate that all material objects are not external to, but exist in the mind, 
and are, in short, merely impressions made upon it by the immediate power 
and influence of the Deity. It should not, however, be supposed that he was 
so skeptical as to reject the testimony of his senses, or to deny the reality of 
his sensations. He disputed not the effects but the causes of our sensations, and 
was, therefore, induced to inquire, whether these causes took their birth from 
matter external to ourselves, or proceeded merely from impressions on th.6 
mind, through the immediate immaterial agency of the Deity. 

The talent, the elegance, and the metaphysical acuteness of Berkeley's pro- 
ductions, very strongly attracted the attention of the public, and on visiting 
London, in 1713, he very rapidly acquired, and very uniformly retained nu 
merous and valuable friends. Among these, were Sir Richard Steele and 
Dr. Swift, the former of whom engaged him to write some papers for the 
" Guardian," just then commenced ; while the latter introduced him to his 
relation, Lord Berkeley, who, when appointed ambassador to Italy, in No- 
vember of that year, selected Berkeley to accompany him as his chaplain and 
secretary. 

From this embassy he returned in a year, and after some time accepted an 
offer of making the tour of Europe with Mr. Ashe, son of the Bishop of Go- 



1727-1760.] BERKELEY. 511 

gher. He spent four years on the continent, an 1 on bis return in 1721, finding 
in what general distress the nation was involved in consequence of the failure 
of the South Sea scheme, 1 he employed his talents in endeavoring to alleviate 
the public misfortune, and published " An Essay towards preventing the Ruin 
of Great Britain.'' The same year he went to Ireland as chaplain to the Duke 
of Grafton, then lord lieutenant, to whom, about two years after, he was in- 
debted for a valuable promotion in the church, the deanery of Deny. He had 
long, however, had a very benevolent object in view, that of promoting edu- 
cation in the island of Bermuda ; and now, determined to carry it into effect, 
he offered to resign his preferment, and to devote his life to this plan, on an 
income of ,£100 per year. He prevailed on three junior fellows of Trinity 
College, Dublin, to accompany him, and after great exertions he got a charter 
granted for the erection of a college, to be called " St. Paul's College," in Ber- 
muda, and a promise of £20,000 from the minister, Sir Robert Walpole. 
Every thing now promising success to his favorite object, in the fulness of his 
heart, and in the prospect of the good that was to be accomplished in the 
western world, he poured forth the following beautiful effusion, the last verse 
of which is "familiar as household words:" 

The muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time 

Producing subjects worthy fame : 

In happy climes, where, from the genial sun 

And virgin earth, such scenes ensue ; 
The force of art by nature seems outdone, 

And fancied beauties by the true: 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, 

Where nature guides, and virtue rules ; 
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 

The pedantry of courts and schools : 

There sha 1 ! be sung another golden age, 
The rise of empire and of arts ; 

1 This "Scheme," of such famous memory, was originated by John Blount or Blunt, in 1719, a 
scrivener by profession, and a man of consummate cunning. Engaging a number of persons to join 
him, he proposed to government to become the sole public creditor; that is, to become responsible 
for all the debts due from the government to other trading corporations, on condition that he and his 
company should have the exclusive right of trading with all countries along the shores of the Pacific, 
or the " South Sea." The government accepted the proposition, a bill was carried through parlia- 
ment, and the South Sea Company was established. 

The subscriptions to the stock, however, came in but slowly, till Blunt had the hardihood to circu- 
late a report that Gibraltar and Minorca were about to be exchanged by the ministry for Peru ; which 
arrangement would of course transfer an immense trade at once to the Pacific. Instantaneously the 
public mind was all inflamed with excitement. Persons of all ages, ranks, and conditions, hastened to 
purchase the stock ; to secure which thousands laid out their last farthing, and very many ran deeply 
into debt. The subscribers, however, had held their shares but a short time, when a sudden panic 
arose, and the bursting of the bubble was as complete and as rapid as had been its formation and 
expansion. Many eminent bankers and goldsmiths, who had advanced large sums of money on the 
security of the stock, became utterly bankrupt, and counUess numbers of families were overwhelmed 
in ruin. All confidence, in short, both in individuals and in government was at an end, and there 
was scarcely a mansion or cottage in England of which the inmates were n/* more or less sufferers 
from this grand scheme of deception and villany. 



512 BERKELEY. [GEORGE II. 

The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay, 
♦ Such as she bred when fresh and young, 

When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way : 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the dav 

Time's noblest offspring is the las'.. 

Li September, 1728, he sailed from England for Rhode Islana, as the most 
favorable point from which to sail for the Bermudas. He took up his resi- 
dence at Newport, where for nearly two years he devoted himself indefatiga- 
bly to his pastoral labors. 1 The government, however, disappointed him; 
the money promised was never paid ; and he was compelled to abandon his 
project and return home. In 1732, he published his " Alciphron," or "Minute 
Philosopher," a series of dialogues on the model of Plato, between two atheists 
and two Christians; and in 1734 he was promoted to the vacant bishopric of 
Cloyne, the duties of which he discharged with great zeal and faithfulness to 
the end of life, the most tempting offers of more lucrative situations having no 
influence at all upon him. 

His sedentary life at Cloyne having brought disease upon him, and having 
received much relief in the use of tar-water, he published, in 1744, his " Siris, 
a Chain of Philosophical Reflections and Inquiries concerning the Virtues of 
Tar-water," a work singularly curious for the multifarious erudition that it 
embraces, and for the art with which the author has contrived to introduce 
into it the most profound philosophical and religious speculations. His last 
work was "Further Thoughts on Tar-water," published in 1752. Desirous 
to remove to Oxford to educate his son, he offered to resign his bishopric, worth 
£1400 a year, so averse was he to the idea of non-residence. But the king 
would not listen to such a proposition, and said that Berkeley should " die a 
bishop in spite of himself," but that he might choose his place of residence. 
Accordingly, after directing that £200 a year should be distributed to the poor 
of his diocese, he removed to Oxford in July, 1752. He enjoyed his retire- 
ment but for a short time, for on Sunday evening, January 14, 1753, while 
Mrs. Berkeley was reading to him the 15th chapter of the First Corinthians, 
he expired. On this sublime chapter he was commenting with his usual 
energy and ability, when he was in an instant deprived of existence by a 
paralytic affection of the heart. 

It may be said of Berkeley, without exaggeration, that, in point of virtue 
and benevolence, no one of the sons of men has exceeded him. Whether we 
consider his public or his private life, we pause in admiration of efforts un- 
commonly exalted, disinterested, and pure. He was alike an object of en- 
thusiastic love and admiration to extensive societies, and to familiar friends; 
and in the relations of domestic life his manners were uniformly mild, sweet, 
and engaging, and in a pre-eminent degree calculated to ensure the most 
durable and affectionate attachment. Such, indeed, were the energy and im- 
pressive beauty of his character, that it was impossible to be many hours in 
his company without acknowledging its fascination and superiority. In short, 

1 Some memorials of his liberality still exist in that ancient town. 



1727-1760.] BERKELEY. 513 

after the most rigorous survey of the motives and actions of the Bishop of 
Cloyne, we are tempted to assign, in the language of Mr. Pope, and with no 
suspicion of hyperbolical praise, 

To Berkeley every virtue under heaven.l 

NATIONAL LUXURY THE DIRECT ROAD TO NATIONAL RUIN. 

Industry is the natural sure way to wealth ; this is so true, that 
it is impossible an industrious free people should want the neces- 
saries and comforts of life, or an idle, enjoy them under any form 
of government. Money is so far useful to the public as it pro- 
moteth industry ; and credit, having the same effect, is of the same 
value with money ; but money or credit circulating through a 
nation from hand to hand without producing labor and industry 
in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. 

It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible 
schemes as may draw those who are less skilful into their own 
and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and 
honesty, but must see and own, whether he understands the game 
or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prose- 
cuting the old honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down 
to a public gaming-table, and play off their money one to another. 

The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches 
without industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that 
state ; this is as evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, 
when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind fortui- 
tous manner, that some men shall from nothing in an instant ac- 
quire vast estates, without the least desert ; while others are as 
suddenly stript of plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish by their 
own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for, on the one 
hand, but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other, but 
extreme madness and despair ? 

In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordi- 
nary methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, 
and encourage them to despise the slow moderate gains that are 
to be made by an honest industry, must be ruinous to the public, 
and even the winners themselves will at length be involved in 
the public ruin. 

Frugality of manners is the nourishment and strength of bodies 
politic. It is that by which they grow and subsist, until they are 
corrupted by luxury, — the natural cause of their decay and ruin. 
Of this we have examples in the Persians, Lacedaemonians, and 
Romans : not to mention many later governments which have 
sprung up, continued a while, and then perished by the same 
natural causes. But these are, it seems, of no use to us ; and, in 

l Drake's Essays, vol. iii. p. 74. 

2 K 



514 BERKELEY. [GEORGE IT. 

spite of them, we are in a fair way of becoming ourselves another 
useless example to future ages. 

Simplicity of manners may be more easily preserved in a re- 
public than a monarchy ; but if once lost, may be sooner recovered 
in a monarchy, the example of a court being of great efficacy, 
either to reform or to corrupt a people; that alone were sufficient 
to discountenance the wearing of gold or silver, either in clothes 
or equipage, and if the same were prohibited by law, the saving 
so much bullion would be the smallest benefit of such an institu- 
tion ; there being nothing more apt to debase the virtue and good 
sense of our gentry of both sexes than the trifling vanity of appa- 
rel, which we have learned from France, and which hath had 
such visible ill consequences on the genius of that people. Wiser 
nations have made it their care to shut out this folly by severe 
laws and penalties, and its spreading among us can forebode no 
good, if there be any truth in the observation of one of the 
ancients, that the direct way to ruin a man is to dress him up in 
fine clothes. 1 

It cannot be denied that luxury of dress giveth a light behavior 
to our women, which may pass for a small offence, because it is 
a common one, but is in truth the source of great corruptions. 
For this very offence the prophet Isaiah denounced a severe judg- 
ment against the ladies of his time. 2 The scab, the stench, and 
the burning are terrible pestilential symptoms, and our ladies 
would do well to consider, they may chance to resemble those of 
Zion, in their punishment as well as their offence. 

But we are doomed to be undone. Neither the plain reason of 
the thing, nor the experience of past ages, nor the examples we 
have before our eyes, can restrain us from imitating, not to say 
surpassing, the most corrupt and ruined people in those very 
points of luxury that ruined them. Our gaming, our operas, our 
masquerades, are, in spite of our debts and poverty, become the 
wonder of our neighbors. If there be any man so void of all 
thought and common sense, as not to see where this must end, 
let him but compare what Venice was at the league of Cambray, 
with what it is at present, and he will be convinced how truly 
those fashionable pastimes are calculated to depress and ruin a 
nation. 

It is not to be believed, what influence public diversions have 
on the spirit and manners of a people. The Greeks wisely saw 
this, and made a very serious affair of their public sports. For 
the same reason, it will, perhaps, seem worthy the care of our 
legislature to regulate the public diversions, by an absolute prohi- 
bition of those which have a direct tendency to corrupt our morals, 

l These remarks are as just and applicable now as they were in 1721, when they were first pub- 
lished. 2 Read Isaiah iii. 10— 24. 



1727-1760.] tollet. 515 

as well as by a reformation of the drama ; which, when rightly 
managed, is such a noble entertainment, and gave those fine les- 
sons of morality and good sense to the Athenians of old, and to 
our British gentry atove a century ago ; but for these last ninety 
years, hath entertained us, for the most part, with such wretched 
things as spoil, instead of improving the taste and manners of the 
audience. Those who are attentive to such propositions only as 
may fill their pockets, will probably slight these things as trifles 
below the care of the legislature. But I am sure, all honest, think- 
ing men must lament to see their country run headlong into all 
those luxurious follies, which, it is evident, have been fatal to 
other nations, and will undoubtedly prove fatal to us also, if a 
timely stop be not put to them. 



ELIZABETH TOLLET. 1694—1754. 

Elizabeth Toeiet was the daughter of George Tollett, Esq., commissioner 
of the navy, in the reigns of King William and Queen Anne. In a short pre- 
face to a volume of her poems printed in 1755, she is mentioned as a woman 
of great virtue and excellent education. « Her poetry does not rise above 
mediocrity, and she shows most of the spirit and softness of her sex if the 
Winter Song." > 

ON A DEATH'S-HEAD. 

On this resemblance, where we find 
A portrait drawn from all mankind, 
Fond lover ! gaze a while, to see 
What Beauty's idol charms shall be. 
Where are the balls that once could dart 
Quick lightning through the wounded heart? 
The skin, whose tint could once unite 
The glowing red and polish'd white? 
The lip in brighter ruby drest? 
The cheek with dimpled smiles imprest? 
The rising front, where beauty sate 
Throned in her residence of state ; 
Which, half-disclosed and half-conceal'd, 
The hair in flowing ringlets veil'd? 
'Tis vanish'd all ! remains alone 
This eyeless scalp of naked bone : 
The vacant orbits sunk within : 
The jaw that offers at a grin. 
Is this the object then that claims 
The tribute of our youthful flames ? 
Must amorous hopes and fancied bliss, 
Too dear delusions ! end in this ? 

l Southcy's Specimens, ii. 193. 



516 COLLINS. [GEORGE rL 

How high does Melancholy swell ! 
Which sighs can more than language tell : 
Till Love can only grieve or fear, 
Reflect a while, then drop a tear 
For all that's beautiful or dear. 



WINTER SONG. 

Ask me no more, my truth to prove, 

What I would suffer for my love 

With thee I would in exile go, 

To regions of eternal snow : 

O'er floods by solid ice confined ; 

Through forest bare with Northern wind : 

While all around my eyes I cast, 

Where all is wild, and all is waste. 

If there the timorous stag you chase, 

Or rouse to fight a fiercer race, 

Undaunted I thy arms would bear, 

And give thy hand the hunter's spear, 

When the low sun withdraws his light, 

And menaces a half year's night, 

The conscious moon, and stars above, 

Shall guide me with my wandering love. 

Beneath the mountain's hollow brow, 

Or in its rocky cells below, 

Thy rural feast I would provide ; 

Nor envy palaces their pride ; 

The softest moss should dress thy bed, 

With savage spoils about thee spread : 

While faithful Love the watch should keep, 

To banish danger from thy sleep. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 1720—1756. 



William Collins, one of the very finest of English lyric poets, was born 
at Chichester, in the year 1720, and was educated at Oxford. In 1744 he 
repaired to London as a literary adventurer. He won the cordial regard of 
Johnson, then a needy laborer in the same vocation, who, in his "Lives of 
the Poets," has spoken of him with tenderness. He tells us that " his appear- 
ance was decent and manly, his knowledge considerable, his views exten- 
sive, his conversation elegant, and his disposition cheerful. He designed 
many works, but his great fault was irresolution ; or the frequent calls of im- 
mediate necessity broke his scheme, and suffered him to pursue no settled 
purpose." 

His odes were published on his own account in 1746 ; but being disap- 
pointed at the slowness of the sale, he is said to have burnt the copies that 
remained with his own hand. He was shortly relieved from his embarrass- 
ments, by a legacy from an uncle of £2000 : but worse evils than poverty soon 



1727-1760.] collins. 517 

overclouded the rest of his life : he sunk gradually into a sort of melancholy, 
and died in 1756, in a state of helpless insanity. 1 

" The works of Collins," says Campbell, « will abide comparison with 
whatever Milton wrote under the age of thirty. If they have rather less exu- 
berant wealth of genius, they have more exquisite touches of pathos. Like 
Milton, he leads us into the haunted ground of imagination: like him, he has 
the rich economy of expression haloed with thought, which by single or few 
words often hints entire pictures to the imagination. A cloud of obscurity 
sometimes rests on his highest conceptions, arising from the fineness of his 
associations, and the daring sweep of his allusions ; but the shadow is tran- 
sitory, and interferes very little with the light of his imagery or the warmth 
of his feelings. His genius loved to breathe rather in the preternatural and 
ideal element of poetry, than in the atmosphere of imitation, which lies closest 
to real life. He carried sensibility and tenderness into the highest regions of 
abstracted thought : his enthusiasm spreads a glow even amongst ' the shadowy 
tribes of mind ;' and his allegory is as sensible to the heart as it is visible to 
the fancy." 2 

ODE TO FEAR. 3 

Thou, to whom the world unknown, 
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown , 
Who seest appall'd the unreal scene, 
While Fancy lifts the veil between : 

Ah, Fear ! ah, frantic Fear ! 

I see — I see thee near. 
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye ! 
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, 
For, lo, what monsters in thy train appear ! 
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould 
What mortal eye can flx'd behold ? 
Who stalks his round, a hideous form, 
Howling amidst the midnight storm, 

1 "In the year 1756 died our lamented Collins; one of our most exquisite poets, and of whom, pei- 
haps, without exaggeration, it may be asserted, that he partook of the credulity and enthusiasm of 
Tasso, the magic wildness of Shakspeare, the sublimity of Milton, and the pathos of Ossian." — Drake's 
Literary Hours. 

" He had a wonderful combination of excellencies. United to splendor and sublimity of imagina- 
tion, he had a richness of erudition, a keenness of research, a nicety of taste, and an elegance and 
truth of moral reflection, which astonished those who had the luck to be intimate with him." — Sir E. 
Brydges. 

2 " Of all our minor poets, that is, those who have attempted only short pieces, Collins is probably 
the one who has shown most of the highest qualities of poetry, and who excites the most intense 
interest in the bosom of the reader. He soars into the regions of imagination, and occupies the high- 
est peaks of Parnassus. His fancy is glowing and vivid, but at the same time hasty and obscure. 
He has the true inspiration of the poet. He heats and melts objects in the fervor of his genius, as Iv 
a furnace." — Bazlitt. 

3 Collins, who had often determined to apply himself to dramatic poetry, seems here, with the same 
view, to have addressed one of the principal powers of the drama, and to implore that mighty influ- 
ence she had given to the genius of Shakspeare. In the construction of this nervous ode he has 
shown equal p jwer of judgment and imagination. Nothing can be more striking than the violent 
and abrupt abbfeviation of the measure in the fifth and sixth verses, when the poet seems to feel tbe 
strong influent; of the power he invokes: 

" Ah, Fear— ah, frantic Fear I 
I see— I see tlic-e near." 

44 



518 COLLINS. [GEORGE II. 

Or throws him. on the ridgy steep 
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep : 
And with him thousand phantoms join'd, 
Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind : 
And those, the fiends, who near allied, 
O'er nature's wounds and wrecks preside j 
While Vengeance, in the lurid air, 
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare : 
On whom that ravening brood of fate, 
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait ; 
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, 
And look not madly wild, like thee ? 



In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, 
The grief-ful Muse addrest her infant tongue : 

The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, 
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung. 

Yet he, the Bard ! who first invoked thy name, 

Disdain d in Marathon its power to feel : 
Foi not alone he nursed the poet's flame, 

But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot's steel. 

But who is he, 2 whom later garlands grace, 
Who left awhile o'er Hybla's 3 dews to rove, 

"V\ ith trembling eyes thy dreary steps to trace, 
Where thou and furies shared the baleful grove ? 

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous Queen 4 
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband heard, 

When once alone it broke the silent scene, 

And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more appear'A 

Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart, 

Thy withering power inspired each mournful line, 

Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part, 
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine. 

ANTISTKOPHE. 

Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 
Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at last? 
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, 
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? 
Or in some hollow 'd seat, 
'Gainst which the big waves beat, 

1 The Greek tragic poet, .ffischylus, who was in the battle of Marathon, between the Athenians 
and Persians, B.C. 490. 

2 Sophocles, another Greek dramatic poet. 

8 Hybla was a mountain in Sicily, famous for its honey and bees. 

4 Jocasta, the queen of Thebes, who, after the death of her husband Laius, married her own son 
CEdipus (whom Collins here calls the "wretch") without knowing who he was. On this story is 
Sounded that most sublime ind pathetic tragedy, the " CEdipus Tyrannus" of Sophocles. 



1727-1760.] collins. 519 

Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought 1 ? 

Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought, 

Be mine, to read the visions old, 

Which thy awakening bards have told 

And, lest thou meet my blasted view, 

Hold each strange tale devoutly true ; 

Ne'er be I found, by thee o'erawed, 

In that thrice-hallow'd eve 1 abroad, 

When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe, 

Their pebbled beds permitted leave, 

And goblins haunt from fire, or fen, 

Or mine, or flood, the walks of men ! 

O thou, whose spirit most possest 
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast ! 
By all that from thy prophet broke, 
In thy divine emotions spoke ! 
Hither again thy fury deal, 
Teach me but once like him to feel : 
His cypress wreath my meed decree, 
And I, Fear, will dwell with thee! 



ODE TO EVENING. 2 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales; 

nymph reserved, -while now the bright-hair'd sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, 
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises, midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum: 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some soften'd strain, 

1 He here alludes to the old superstitions connected with All-Hallow Even, or Hallow E'en— the 
last evening of October. 

2 Though blank verse had been so successfully employed in English heroic measure by one of the 
greatest poets that ever lived, and made the vehicle of the noblest poem that ever was written, yet 
no one had introduced it into lyric poetry before Collins. That he is most happy and successful in 
the use of it, who can doubt after reading this exquisite " Ode to Evening," the imagery and enthu- 
siasm of which must render it delightful to every reader of taste f 

"Collins has given but one entire instance of reflecting the scenery of nature as from a poetical 
mirror. This is the Ode to Evening. Almost all else is the embodiment of intellect. B'it this single 
specimen is perfect in its way. There is not one idle epithet or ill-chosen image:— the novelty and 
happiness of combination show invention even here; though nature is neither added to nor height- 
ened." — Sir Egerton Brydge*. 



520 COLLINS. [GEORGE H 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant hours, and elves 

Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, 

The pensive pleasures sweet 

Prepare thy shadowy car ; 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls m©re awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 

That from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light: 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes : 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And love thy favorite name ! 



THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 1 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell, 



l If the music which was composed for this ode had equal merit with the ode itself, it must have 
oeen the most excellent performance of the kind in which poetry and music have, in modern timesi 
united. Other pieces of the same nature have derived their greatest reputation from the perfection 



1797-1760.] collins. 521 

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting* 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined. 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
FilPd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound j 
And as they oft. had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each, for madness ruled the hour, 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 
In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair — 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 

: Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure? 
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong, 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She call'd on Echo still through all the song • 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 
And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose ; 
He threw his blood-staind sword in thunder down, 
And with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 

of the music that accompanied them, having in themselves little more merit than that of an ordinary 
ballad : but in this we have the whole soul and power of poetry :— expression that, even without the 
aid of music, strikes to the heart; and imagery of power enough to transport the attention without 
the forceful alliance of corresponding sounds. "What then must have been the effects of these united ! 
The picture of Hope in this ode is beautiful almost beyond imitation. By the united powers of 
Imagery and harmony, that delightful being is exhibited with all the charms and graces that pleasure 
and fancy have appropriated to her. The descriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge, are excellent, 
though not equally so : those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are superior to every thing of the 
kind ; and, upon the whole, there may be very little hazard in asserting that this is the finest ode in 
the English language. Read— Observations on Collins's Poems in >he 58th vol. of Johnson's Poets. 

44* 



522 COLLINS [GEORGE IL 

And ever and anon he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 

Dejected Pity at his side 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain d ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fix'd, 

Sad proof of thy distressful state, 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 

"With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired, 

And from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Pourd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 

Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
Round a holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace, and lonely musing, 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

But, 0, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known : 

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, 

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 

Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, 

But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay, 

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

O Music, sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, 



1727-1760.] collins. 523 

Why, Goddess, why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside 1 
As in that loved Athenian bower, 
You learn'd in all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeard, 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to virtue, fancy, art"? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 
Fill thy recording sister's page — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age 
E'en all at once together found 
Csecilia's mingled world of sound — 
O, bid our vain endeavors cease, 
Revive the just designs of Greece, 
Return in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 



ODE TO THE BRAVE. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod, 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By Fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung! 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



ODE TO MERCY. 1 

STROPHE. 

Thou, who sitt'st a smiling bride 

By Valor's arm'd and awful side, 
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored : 

Who oft with songs, divine to hear, 

Win'st from his fatal grasp the spear, 
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword ! 

1 The Ode to the Brave, written in 1746, and the Ode to Mercy, seem to have been written on tne 
same occasion, namely, the Scotch Rebellion of 1746, when the young Pretender, Charles Edward 
Stuart, after landing in Scotland and routing the English forces, was utterly defeated at Cullodcn 
The subsequent devastations of the Highlands by the English were dreadful > nd bloody in the highest 
degree ; and well might our gifted poet invoke the genius of Mercy. 



524 COLLINS. [GEORGE II. 

Thou whc amidst the Jeathful field, 

By godlike chiefs alone beheld, 
Oft with thy bosom bare art found, 
Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground : 

See Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, 

Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, 
And decks thy altar still, though pierced with many a wound 

ANTISTROFHE. 

When he whom e'en our joys provoke, 

The fiend of Nature join'd his yoke, 
And rushVl in wrath to make our isle his prey ; 

Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, 

O'ertook him on his blasted road, 
And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away. 

I see recoil his sable steeds, 

That bore him swift to savage deeds, 
Thy tender melting eyes they own ; 
Maid, for all thy love to Britain shown, 

Where Justice bars her iron tower, 

To thee we build a roseate bower, 
Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne 1 



ON THE DEATH OF THE POET THOMSON. 

I. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies 

Where slowly winds the stealing wave ! 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, 

To deck its Poet's sylvan grave ! 



In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp 2 shall now be laid, 

That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, 
May love through life the soothing shade. 

in. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 



Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 



i This ode on the Death of Thomson seems to have been written during an excursion to Richmond 
on the Thames. " Collins had skill to complain." Of that mournful melody, and those tender images, 
whicti are the distinguishing excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship or beauty, he 
was almost an unequalled master. 

e The harp of JEolus, of which see a description in Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 



1727-1760.] RICHARDSON. &2S 



And oft as Ease and Health retire 
To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 

The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 1 
And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

VI. 

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, 
Ah ! what will every dirge avail 1 

Or tears, which Love and Pity shed 
That mourn beneath the gliding sail ! 



Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? 

With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, 
And Joy desert the blooming year. 



But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, 

Now waft me from the green hill's side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 



And see, the fairy valleys fade, 

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view ! 
Yet once again, dear parted shade, 

Meek nature's child, again adieu ! 



The genial meads 2 assign'd to bless 
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom! 

Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress 
With simple hands thy rural tomb. 



Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes ; 

! vales, and wild woods, shall he say ; 
In yonder grave your Druid lies ! 



SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 1689—1761. 

Samuex. Richardson, who may be said to be the inventor of the modern 
English novel, was the son of a carpenter in Derbyshire, and was born in 
1689. From the limited means of his father, he was restricted to a common- 
Bchool education, which is very apparent in the structure of his composition. 
He early exhibited, however, the most decisive marks of genius, and was re. 

1 Thomson was buried in Richmond church. 

2 Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Richmond some time before his death. 



526 RICHARDSON. 



[GEORGE III. 



markably partial to letter-writing, and to the company of his young female 
friends, with whom, he maintained a constant correspondence, and even 
ventured, though only in his eleventh year, to become their occasional monitor 
and adviser. « As a bashful and not forward boy," he relates, " I was an 
early favorite with all the young women of taste and reading in the neigh- 
borhood. Half a dozen of them, when met to work with their needles, used, 
when they got a book they liked, and thought I should, to borrow me to read 
to them ; their mothers sometimes with them ; and both mothers and daugh- 
ters used to be pleased with the observations they put me upon making." In 
this exercise, doubtless, we may see the germ of the future novelist. 

At the age of sixteen he was put to the printer's trade, which he chose be- 
cause it would give him an opportunity for reading. At the termination of 
his apprenticeship, he became a compositor and corrector of the press, and 
continued in this office for nearly six years, when he entered into business for 
himself. By his industry, punctuality, and integrity, he became more and 
more known, and his business rapidly increased ; so that in a few years he 
obtained the lucrative situation of printer to the House of Commons. He did 
not, however, neglect to use his pen, and frequently composed prefaces and 
dedications for the booksellers. He also published a volume of " Familiar 
Letters," which might serve as models for persons of limited education. 

In 1740 he published his first novel, "Pamela," which immediately at- 
tracted an extraordinary degree of attention. " It requires a reader," says Sir 
Walter Scott, " to be in some degree acquainted with the huge folios of in- 
anity over which our ancestors yawned themselves to sleep, ere he can esti- 
mate the delight they must have experienced from this unexpected return to 
truth and nature." Truly original in its plan, it united the interest arising 
from well-combined incident with the moral purposes of a sermon. Pope 
praised it as likely to do more good than twenty volumes of sermons ; and 
Dr. Sherlock recommended it from the pulpit. 

In 1749 appeared Richardson's second and greatest work, "The History 
of Clarissa Harlowe," which raised his reputation at once, as a master of 
fictitious narrative, to the highest point. Dr. Drake calls it " perhaps the most 
pathetic tale ever published." The admiration it excited was not confined to 
his own country. It was honored with two versions in French, and Rousseau 
declared that nothing ever equal, or approaching to it, had been produced in 
any country. 

As, in the character of Clarissa, Richardson had presented a picture of 
female virtue and honor nearly perfect, so in 1753, in the "History of Sir 
Charles Grandison," he designed to give a character which should combine 
the elegance of the gentleman with the faith and virtues of the Christian. 
"This, though not indeed so pathetic as his former work, discovers more 
knowledge of life and manners, and is perfectly free from that indelicacy 
and high coloring which occasionally render the scenery of Clarissa danger- 
ous to young minds." l 

In 1754 he was elected to the post of master to the Stationers' Company, a 
situation as lucrative as it was honorable. For some years previous to his 
death he had suffered much from nervous attacks, which at length terminated 
m aii apoplectic stroke, which proved fatal on the 4th of July, 1761 

No character could be freer from vice of every sort, or more perfectly irre- 
proachable, than Richardson. In all the duties of morality and piety he was 
the most regular and exemplary of men. As a writer, he possessed original 

1 Drake's Essays, vol. v. p. 53. 



1760-1820.] richardson. 527 

genius, and an unlimited command over the tender passions ; yet, owing to 
the prolixity of his productions and the poverty of his style, his works are 
continually decreasing in popularity. How few now read " Clarissa,' 1 or 
"Sir Charles Grandison!" How important, then, is style to the preservation 
of literary labor ! 

In 1755 was published a curious volume with the following title: — "A 
Collection of the Moral and Instructive Sentiments, Maxims, Cautions, and 
Reflections, contained in the Histories of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles 
Grandison." From it we make the following extracts : — 



MORAL SENTIMENTS. 

Beneficence. The power of doing good to worthy objects, 
is the only enviable circumstance in the lives of people of fortune 

What joy it is in the power of the wealthy to give themselves, 
whenever they please, by comforting those who struggle with 
undeserved distress. 

Nothing in human nature is so God-like as the disposition to do 
good to our fellow-creatures. 

Such is the blessing of a benevolent heart, that, let the world 
frown as it will, it cannot possibly bereave it of all happiness- ; 
since it can rejoice in the prosperity of others. 

Calumny, Censure. No one is exempt from calumny. Words 
said, the occasion of saying them not known, however justly re- 
ported, may bear a very different construction from what they 
would have done had the occasion been told. 

Were evil actions to pass uncensured, good ones would lose 
their reward ; and vice, by being put on a foot with virtue in this 
life, would meet with general countenance. 

A good person will rather choose to be censured for doing his 
duty than for a defect in it. 

Children. There is such a natural connection and progression 
between the infantile and more adult state of children's minds, 
that those who would know how to account for their inclinations, 
should not be wholly inattentive to them in the former state. 

At two or three years old, or before the buds of children's 
minds will begin to open, a watchful parent will then be em- 
ployed, like a skilful gardener, in defending the flower from 
blights, and assisting it through its several stages to perfection. 

Education. Tutors should treat their pupils, with regard to 
such of their faulty habits as cannot easily be eradicated, as pru- 
dent physicians do their patients in chronical cases ; rather with 
gentle palliatives than harsh extirpatives ; which, by means of 
the resistance given to them by the habit, may create such fer- 
ments as may utterly defeat their intention. 

Neither a learned nor a fine education is of any other value 



528 RICHARDSON. [GEORGE in. 

than as it tends to improve the morals of men, and to make them 
wise and good. 1 

A generous mind will choose to win youth to its duty hy mild- 
ness and good usage, rather than by severity. 

The Almighty, by rewards and punishments, makes it our in- 
terest, as well as our duty, to obey Him ; and can we propose to 
ourselves, for the government of our children, a better example ? 

Friendship. The more durable ties of friendship are those 
which result from a union of minds formed upon religious prin- 
ciples. 

An open and generous heart will not permit a cloud to hang 
long upon the brow of a friend, without inquiring into the reason 
of it, in hopes to be able to dispel it. 

Freely to give reproof, and thankfully to receive it, is an indis- 
pensable condition of true friendship. 

One day, profligate men will be convinced that what they call 
friendship is chaff and stubble, and that nothing is worthy of that 
sacred name that has not virtue for its base. 

General Observations. The man or woman who will obsti- 
nately vindicate a faulty step in another, seems to indicate that, in 
like circumstances, he or she would have been guilty of the same 
fault. 

All our pursuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles ot 
different sorts and sizes, proportioned to our years and views. 

We must not expect that our roses will grow without thorns ; 
but then they are useful and instructive thorns, which, by prick- 
ing the fingers of the too hasty plucker, teach future caution. 

The Good Man. A good man lives to his own heart. He 
thinks it not good manners to slight the world's opinion ; though 
he will regard it only in the second place. 

A good man will look upon every accession of power to do 
good as a new trial to the integrity of his heart. 

A good man, though he will value his own countrymen, yet 
will think as highly of the worthy men of every nation under the 
sun. 

A good man is a prince of the Almighty's creation. 

A good man will not engage even in a national cause, without 
examining the justice of it. 

How much more glorious a character is that of the friend of 
mankind, than that of the conqueror of nations ? 

l « And surely happiness, duty, faith, truth, and final blessedness, are matters of deeper and dearer 
Interest for all men, than circles to the geometrician, or the characters of plants to the botanist, or 
the affinities and combining principle of the elements of bodies to the chemist, or even than the 
mechanism (fearful and wonderful though it be) of the perishable Tabernacle of the Soul can be to 
the anatomist."- Coleridge 



1760-1820.] Sherlock. 529 

The heart of a worthy man is ever on his lips ; he will be 
pamed when he cannot speak all that is in it. 

An impartial spirit will admire goodness or greatness wherever 
he meets it, and whether it makes for or against him. 

The Good Woman. A good woman is one of the greatest 
glories of the creation. 

How do the duties of a good wife, a good mother, and a worthy 
matron, well performed, dignify a woman ! 

A good woman reflects honor on all those who had any hand in 
her education, and on the company she has kept. 

A woman of virtue and of good understanding, skilled in, and 
delighting to perform the duties of domestic life, needs not fortune 
to recommend her to the choice of the greatest and richest man, 
who wishes his own happiness. 

Youth. It is a great virtue in good-natured youth to be able 
to say NO. 

Those who respect age deserve to live to be old, and to be re- 
spected themselves. 

Young people set out with false notions of happiness ; with 
gay, fairy-land imaginations. 

It is a most improving exercise, as well with regard to style as 
to morals, to accustom ourselves early to write down every thing 
of moment that befalls us. 

There is a docile season, a learning-time in youth, which, suf- 
fered to elapse, and no foundation laid, seldom returns. 

Young folks are sometimes very cunning in finding out con- 
trivances to cheat themselves. 



THOMAS SHERLOCK. 1678—1761. 

This learned prelate of the Church of England was born in London, 1678 
He was educated at Catherine Hall, Cambridge, of which he became master, 
and in 1714 was vice-chancellor of the University. In the controversies 
which arose at that period respecting the proofs of the divine origin of Chris- 
tianity, Sherlock distinguished himself, particularly in his "Use and Intent of 
Prophecy," and his "Trial of the Witnesses of the Resurrection of Jesus." In 
1728 he was made Bishop of Bangor, in 1734 was translated to Salisbury, and 
in 1748 to London. In 1755 and.1756 he revised and corrected a large body 
of his sermons, which were published in four volumes. He died in 1761, at 
the advanced age of eighty-three. 

Sherlock's sermons are among the best specimens of English pulpit elo- 
quence extant. His style, though possessing but little ornament, is "lear and 
vdgorous, and a few passages may be selected from his writings, sucn as the 
comparison between Christ and Mahomet, that are truly sublime. 
2 L 45 



530 SHERLOCK. [GEORGE III. 

DIFFERENT ENDS OF RELIGION AND INFIDELITY. 

Should the punishments of another life he what we have but too 
much reason to fear they will be, what words can then express the 
folly of sin ? Short are our days in this world, and soon they shall 
expire : and should religion at last prove a mere deceit, we know 
the worst of it ; it is an error for which we cannot suffer after 
death : nor will the infidels there have the pleasure to reproach 
us with our mistake ; they and we, in equal rest, shall sleep the 
sleep of death. But should our hopes, and their fears, prove true ; 
should they be so unhappy as not to die for ever — which misera- 
ble hope is the only comfort that infidelity affords — what pains and 
torments must they then undergo ? Could I represent to you the 
different states of good and bad men ; could I give you the pros- 
pect which the blessed martyr Stephen had, and show you the 
blessed Jesus at the right hand of God surrounded with angels, 
and the spirits of just men made perfect ; could I open your ears 
to hear the never-ceasing hymns of praise which the blessed above 
sing to him that was, and is, and is to come; to the Lamb that 
ivas slain, but liveth for ever ; could I lead you through the un- 
bounded regions of eternal day, and show you the mutual and 
ever-blooming joys of saints who are at rest from their labor, and 
live for ever in the presence of God ; or, could I change the scene, 
and unbar the iron gates of hell, and carry you, through solid 
darkness, to the fire that never goes out, and to the worm that 
never dies ; could I show you the apostate angels fast bound in 
eternal chains, or the souls of wicked men overwhelmed with tor- 
ment and despair ; could I open your ears to hear the deep itself 
groan with the continual cries of misery — cries which can never 
reach the throne of mercy, but return in sad echoes, and add even 
to the very horrors of hell ; could I thus set before you the differ- 
ent ends of religion and infidelity, you would want no other proof 
to convince you that nothing can recompense the hazard men run 
of being for ever miserable through unbelief. But, though nei- 
ther the tongues of men nor of angels can express the joys of 
heaven, or describe the pains of hell ; yet, if there be any truth 
in religion, these things are certain and near at hand. 

THE INFORMATION THE GOSPEL GIVES, MOST DESIRABLE. 

The Christian revelation has such pretences, at least, as may 
make it worthy of a particular consideration. It pretends to come 
from heaven ; to have been delivered by the Son of God; to have 
been confirmed by undeniable miracles and prophecies ; to have 
been ratified by the blood of Christ and his apostles, who died in 
asserting its truth : it can show, likewise, an innumerable com- 



1760-1820.] Sherlock. 531 

pany of martyrs and confessors ; its doctrines are pure and holy , 
its precepts just and righteous ; its worship is a reasonable ser- 
vice, refined from the errors of idolatry and superstition, and spi- 
ritual, like the God who is the object of it : it offers the aid and 
the assistance of heaven to the weakness of nature, which makes 
the religion of the Gospel to be as practicable as it is reasonable : 
it promises infinite rewards to obedience, and threatens eternal 
punishment to obstinate offenders, which makes it of the utmost 
consequence to us soberly to consider it, since every one who re- 
jects it stakes his own soul against the truth of it. Look into the 
Gospel ; there you will find every reasonable hope of nature, nay, 
every reasonable suspicion of nature cleared up and confirmed, 
every difficulty answered and removed. Do the present circum- 
stances of the world lead you to suspect that God could never be 
the author of such corrupt and wretched creatures as men now 
are ? Your suspicions are just and well founded. " God made 
man upright ;" but through the temptation of the devil, sin en- 
tered, and death and destruction followed after. 

Do you suspect, from the success of virtue and vice in this 
world, that the providence of God does not interpose to protect the 
righteous from violence, or to punish the wicked ? The suspicion 
is not without ground. God leaves his best servants here to be 
tried oftentimes with affliction and sorrow, and permits the wicked 
to flourish and abound. The call of the Gospel is not to honor 
and riches here, but to take up our cross and follow Christ. 

Do you judge from comparing the present state of the world 
with the natural notion you have of God, and of his justice and 
goodness, that there must needs be another state in which justice 
shall take place ? You reason right, and the Gospel confirms the 
judgment. God has appointed a day to judge the world in right- 
eousness : then those who mourn shall rejoice, those who weep 
shall laugh, and the persecuted and afflicted servants of God shall 
be heirs of his kingdom. 

Have you sometimes misgivings of mind ? Are you tempted 
to mistrust this judgment when you see the difficulties which 
surround it on every side ; some which affect the soul in its sepa- 
rate state, some which affect the body in its state of corruption 
and dissolution ? Look to the Gospel : there these difficulties are 
accounted for ; and you need no longer puzzle yourself with dark 
questions concerning the state, condition, and nature of separate 
spirits, or concerning the body, however to appearance lost or 
destroyed ; for the body and soul shall once more meet to part no 
more, but to be happy for ever. In this case the learned cannot 
doubt, and the ignorant may be sure that 'tis the man, the very 
man himself, who shall rise again ; for a union of the same sou 
and body is as certainly the restoration of the man, as the divid- 



532 MONTAGU. [GEORGE III. 

ing them was the destruction. Would you know who it is that 
gives this assurance ? It is one who is able to make good his 
word : one who loved you so well as to die for you ; yet one too 
great to be held a prisoner in the grave. No ; He rose with 
triumph and glory, the first-born from the dead, and will, in like 
manner, call from the dust of the earth all those who put their 
trust and confidence in Him. 



CHRIST AND MOHAMMED CONTRASTED. 

Go to your Natural Religion : lay before her Mohammed and his 
disciples arrayed in armor and in blood, riding in triumph over 
the spoils of thousands and tens of thousands who fell by his vic- 
torious sword : show her the cities which he set in flames, the 
countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable dis- 
tress of all the inhabitants of the earth. When she has viewed 
him in this scene, carry her into his retirements : show her the 
prophet's chamber, his concubines and wives ; let her see his 
adultery, and hear him allege revelation and his divine commis- 
sion to justify his lust and his oppression. When she is tired 
of this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, humble and 
meek, doing good to all the sons of men, patiently instructing both 
the ignorant and the perverse : let her see him in his most retired 
privacies : let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions 
and supplications to God: carry her to his table to view his poor 
fare, and hear his heavenly discourse : let her see him injured, 
but not provoked : let her attend him to the tribunal, and consider 
the patience with which he endured the scoffs and reproaches of 
his enemies : lead her to the cross, and let her view him in the 
agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors : 
" Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do !" When 
Natural Religion has viewed both, ask, Which is the prophet of 
God ? But her answer we have already had, when she saw part 
of this scene through the eyes of the centurion who attended at 
the cross : by him she said, " Truly, this was the Son of God." 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 1690—1762. 

This lady, the daughter of Evelyn, Earl of Kingston, was born at her 
father's seat at Thoresby, in Nottinghamshire, about the year 1690. Display- 
ing great attractions of person as well as sprightliness of mind from her earli- 
est years, she was the pride of her father, who took every pains with her 
education, and had her instructed by the same masters as her brother in the 
( 3 reek, Latin, and French languages. In 1712 she was married to Edward 
Wortiey Montagu, Esq., and soon after this, resided principally in London, 



1760-1820.] montagu. 533 

where her wit, and learning, and beauty, acquiied her a brilliant reputation 
Her husband had long been on intimate terms with A-ddison, Pope, and other 
eminent literary men of the day, and in that society she moved with the same 
lustre as in the circles of rank and fashion. In 1716, her husband was ap- 
pointed ambassador to the Porte, and she accompanied him to Constantinople. 
During her residence here she addressed to her sister, to Mr. Pope, and other 
friends, the celebrated Letters upon which her fame principally rests. In 
1718, her husband being recalled from his embassy, she returned to England, 
and, by the advice of Pope, settled at Twickenham. The warm friendship 
between these geniuses did not, however, very long continue; a coolness and 
finally an open quarrel ensued. The cause of it is involved in considerable 
mystery, but it is probable that the vanity and irritability of the poet were 
quite as much to blame as the levity and heartlessness of the lady. 

Lady Mary's visit to Turkey, besides producing the Letters, is famous for 
having been followed by the introduction into England, through her means, 
of the practice of the innoculation for the small-pox. Observing this practice 
among the villages in Turkey, and seeing its good effects, she applied it to 
her own son, then about three years old, and by great exertions established 
the practice of innoculation in England. She resided in England for twenty 
years after her return from Constantinople, during which time she published 
a considerable quantity of verse, for it hardly deserves the name of poetry. 
It is enough to say of it, that, from its indelicate character, it has been excluded 
from the modern editions of her works. For reasons, the nature of which is 
not well known, she left England in 1739 without her husband, and resided 
most of the time, for twenty-two years, in Italy. She was prevailed upon, by 
the solicitations of her daughter, to return to England in 1761; but she did 
not survive her return to her native country a year, dying of a cancer in the 
bieast, August 21, 1762. 

Lady Montagu owes her reputation chiefly to her Letters from Constanti- 
nople. The picture of Eastern life and manners given in them, is in general 
as correct as it is clear, lively, and striking; and they abound not only in wit 
and humor, but in a depth and sagacity of remark conveyed in a style at once 
flowing and forcible, such as has rarely proceeded from a female pen. But 
these literary qualities are more than counterbalanced by the want of that 
delicacy, that refinement of feeling, and those pure moral sentiments, without 
which the female character is any thing but an object of admiration. « Her 
desire to convey scandal, or to paint graphically, leads her into offensive de- 
tails, which the more decorous taste of the present age can hardly tolerate. 
She described what she saw and heard without being scrupulous; and her 
strong masculine understanding, and carelessness as to refinement in habits 
or expressions, render her sometimes apparently unamiable as well as unfeel- 
ing." Still her letters are models of epistolary style, and from them, as si.ch, 
we present a few extracts that are unexceptionable. 

EASTERN MANNERS AND LANGUAGE. 

Adrianople, April 1, 0. S., 1717 
To Mr. Pope. 

* * I no longer look upon Theocritus as a romantic wntei , 
he has only given a plain image of the way of life amongst the 
peasants of his country, who, before oppression had reduced them 
to want, were, I suppose, all employed as the better sort of them 

45* 



534 MONTAGU. [GEORGE in. 

are now. I don't doubt, had he been bom a Briton, but his Idyl- 
Hums had been filled with descriptions of thrashing and churning-, 
both which are unknown here, the corn being all trodden out by 
oxen ; the butter (I speak it with sorrow) unheard of. 

I read over your Homer here with an infinite pleasure, and find 
several little passages explained that I did not before entirely com- 
prehend the beauty of; many of the customs, and much of the 
dress then in fashion, being yet retained. I don't wonder to find 
more remains here of an age so distant, than is to be found in any 
other country ; the Turks not taking that pains to introduce theii 
own manners, as has been generally practised by other nations, 
that imagine themselves more polite. It would be too tedious to 
you to point out all the passages that relate to present customs. 
But I can assure you that the princesses and great ladies pass 
their time at their looms, embroidering veils and robes, surrounded 
by their maids, which are always very numerous, in the same 
manner as we find Andromache and Helen described. The de- 
scription of the belt of Menelaus exactly resembles those that are 
now worn by the great men, fastened before with broad golden 
clasps, and embroidered round with rich work. The snowy veil 
that Helen throws over her face is still fashionable ; and I never 
see half-a-dozen of old bashaws (as I do very often) with their 
reverend beards, sitting basking in the sun, but I recollect good 
king Priam and his counsellors. Their manner of dancing is 
certainly the same that Diana is sung to have danced on the 
banks of Eu rotas. The great lady still leads the dance, and is 
followed by a troop of young girls, who imitate her steps, and, if 
she sings, make up the chorus. The tunes are extremely gay 
and lively, yet with something in them wonderfully soft. The 
steps are varied according to the pleasure of her that leads the 
dance, but always in exact time, and infinitely more agreeable 
than any of our dances, at least in my opinion. I sometimes 
make one in the train, but am not skilful enough to lead ; these 
are the Grecian dances, the Turkish being very different. 

I should have told you, in the first place, that the eastern man- 
ners give a great light into many Scripture passages that appear 
odd to us, their phrases being commonly what we should call 
Scripture language. The vulgar Turk is very different from 
what is spoken at court, or amongst the people of figure, who al- 
ways mix so much Arabic and Persian in their discourse, that it 
may very well be called another language. And 'tis as ridicu- 
lous to make use of the expressions commonly used, in speaking 
to a great man or lady, as it would be to speak broad Yorkshire 
or Somersetshire in the drawing-room. Besides this distinction, 
they have what they call the sublime, that is, a style proper for 
poetry, and which is the exact Scripture style. 



1760-1820.] Montagu. 535 

FRANCE IN 1718. 

Paris, October 10, 0. S., 1718. 
To Lady Rich. 

* * The air of Paris has already had a good effect upon me : 
for I was never in better health, though I have been extremely ill 
all the road from Lyons to this place. You may judge how agree- 
able the journey has been to me, which did not want that addition 
to make me dislike it. I think nothing so terrible as objects of 
misery, except one had the Godlike attribute of being capable to 
redress them ; and all the country villages of France show nothing 
else. While the post-horses are changed, the whole town comes 
out to beg, with such miserable starved faces, and thin tattered 
clothes, they need no other eloquence to persuade one of the 
wretchedness of their condition. This is all the French magnifi- 
cence till you come to Fontainbleau, where you are showed one 
thousand five hundred rooms in the king's hunting palace. The 
apartments of the royal family are very large, and richly gilt ; 
but I saw nothing in the architecture or painting worth remem- 
bering. 

I have seen all the beauties, and such nauseous creatures ! so fan- 
tastically absurd in their dress ! so monstrously unnatural in their 
paints ! their hair cut short, and curled round their faces, and so 
loaded with powder, that it makes it look like white wool ! and on 
their cheeks to their chins, unmercifully laid on a shining red 
japan, that glistens in a most flaming manner, so that they seem 
to have no resemblance to human faces. I am apt to believe that 
they took the first hint of their dress from a fair sheep newly rud- 
dled. 'Tis with pleasure I recollect my dear pretty country- 
women : and if I was writing to anybody else, I should say that 
these grotesque daubers give me a still higher esteem of the natu- 
ral charms of dear Lady Rich's auburn hair, and the lively colors 
of her unsullied complexion. 

FEMALE EDUCATION. 

Louvere, January 28, N. S., 1753 

To THE COTTVTESS OF BUTE. 

Dear Child — You have given me a great deal of satisfaction 
by your account of your eldest daughter. I am particularly 
pleased to hear she is a good arithmetician ; it is the best proof 
of understanding : the knowledge of numbers is one of the chief 
distinctions between us and brutes. If there is any thing in 
blood, you may reasonably expect your children should be en- 
dowed with an uncommon share of good sense. I will therefore 
speak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only capable, but de 
sirous of learning; ir that case by all means let her be indulged 



536 MONTAGU. [GEORGE III. 

in it You will tell me I did not make it a part of your educa- 
tion ; your prospect was very different from hers. As you had 
much in your circumstances to attract the highest offers, it seemed 
your business to learn how to live in the world, as it is hers to 
know how to be easy out of it. It is the common error of build- 
ers and parents to follow some plan they think beautiful, (and 
perhaps is so,) without considering that nothing is beautiful which 
is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised that the 
raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas 
are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived for a 
coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north of Britain : 
thus every woman endeavors to breed her daughter a fine lady, 
qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, and 
at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which 
she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not 
only make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is 
so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not 
want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or 
variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her 
closet. To render this amusement complete, she should be per- 
mitted to learn the languages. There are two cautions to be given 
on this subject : first, not to think herself learned when she can 
read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be 
called vehicles of learning than learning itself. True knowledge 
consists in knowing things, not words. I would no further wish 
her a linguist than to enable her to read books in their originals, 
that are often corrupted, and are always injured by translations. 
Two hours' application every morning will bring this about much 
sooner than you can imagine, and she will have leisure enough 
besides to run over the English poetry, which is a more important 
part of a woman's education than it is generally supposed. Many 
a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which 
she would have laughed at if she had known it had been stolen 
from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I saved one 
of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me an 
epistle she was quite charmed with. As she had naturally a good 
taste, she observed the lines were not so smooth as Prior's or 
Pope's, but had more thought and spirit than any of theirs. She 
was wonderfully delighted with such a demonstration of her lover's 
sense and passion, and not a little pleased with her own charms, 
that had force enough to inspire such elegancies. In the midst of 
this triumph, I showed her that they were taken from Randolph's 
poems, and the unfortunate transcriber was dismissed with the 
-scorn he deserved.* To say truth, the poor plagiary was very 
mlucky to fall into my hands ; that author, being no longer in 
"ashion, would have escaped any one of less universal reading 



1760-1820.] montagu. 537 

than myself. You should encourage your daughter to talk over 
with you what she reads ; and as you are very capable of distin- 
guishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit and 
humor, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of 
young people, and have a train of ill consequences. The second 
caution to be given her, (and which is most absolutely necessary,) 
is to conceal whatever learning she attains, with as much solici- 
tude as she would hide crookedness or lameness : the parade of it 
can only serve to draw on her the envy, and consequently the 
most inveterate hatred, of all he and she fools, which will cer- 
tainly be at least three parts in four of her acquaintance. The 
use of knowledge in our sex, besides the amusement of solitude, is 
to moderate the passions, and learn to be contented with a small 
expense, which are the certain effects of a studious life ; and it 
may be preferable even to that fame which men have engrossed 
to themselves, and will not suffer us to share. If she has the 
same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that I was 
born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish her 
with materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is al- 
lotted to mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of mak- 
ing Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not 
difficult to be understood by a moderate capacity. 

It is a saying of Thucydides, that ignorance is bold, and know- 
ledge reserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it 
without being more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance 
than elated by learning. At the same time I recommend books, I 
neither exclude work nor drawing. / think it is scandalous for 
a woman not to know how to use a needle. I was once extremely 
fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification to me when 
my father turned off my master, having made a considerable pro- 
gress for the short time I learned. My over-eagerness in the 
pursuit of it had brought a weakness in my eyes, that made it 
necessary to leave off; and all the advantage I got was the im- 
provement of my hand. I see by hers, that practice will make 
her a ready writer : she may attain it by serving you. for a secre- 
tary, when your health or affairs make it troublesome to you to 
write yourself; and custom will make it an agreeable amusement 
to her. She cannot have too many for that station of life which 
will probably be her fate. The ultimate end of your education 
was to make you a good wife, (and I have the comfort to hear that 
you are one ;) hers ought to be to make her happy in a virgin 
state. I will not say it is happier, but it is undoubtedly safer 
than any marriage. In a lottery, where there is (at the lowest 
computation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most pru- 
dent choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly 
persuaded of this truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering views 



538 BYROM. [GEORGE III. 

I had for you, /as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity,) 
I thought I ow td you the justice to lay before you all the hazards 
attending matrimony : you may recollect I did so in the strongest 
manner. Perhaps you may have more success in the instructing, 
your daughter, she has so much company at home, she will not 
need seeking it abroad, and will more readily take the notions you 
think fit to give her. As you were alone in my family, it would 
have been thought a great cruelty to suffer you no companions of 
your own age, especially having so many near relations, and I do 
not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I was not. sorry to 
see you not determined on a single life, knowing it was not your 
father's intention ; and contented myself with endeavoring to make 
your home so easy, that you might not be in haste to leave it. 

I am afraid you will think this a very long, insignificant letter. 
I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to 
give you every proof in my power that I am your most affection- 
ate mother. 



JOHN BYROM. 1691—1763. 

John- Byrcw, the son of a linen-draper at Manchester, was born in 1691, 
and at the age of seventeen entered the University of Cambridge. Here be 
enltivated with great assiduity a taste for elegant letters, and especially for 
poetry, to which, even in his earliest years, he had shown a marked propen- 
sity. After taking his degree, he obtained a fellowship in the university, 
through the influence of Dr. Richard Bentley, whose daughter Joanna is the 
« Phoebe" of his pastoral poem, the best of his poetical efforts. As he de- 
clined "taking orders," he vacated his fellowship, and soon after married. 
Having no profession, he went to London, and supported himself by teaching 
short-hand writing, till, by the death of his elder brother, he inherited the 
family estate, and spent the remainder of his life in easy circumstances, de- 
voting his time to literary pursuits. He died on die 28th of September, 1763, 
in the seventy-second year of his age. 

Byrom's best piece is his pastoral poem of " Colin and Phcebe," remark- 
able for its easy and flowing versification, and its sprightliness of thought. 
He also wrote a poem on "Enthusiasm," and one on the " Immortality of the 
Soul." His comic poem, entitled " The Three Black Crows," has a most ex- 
cellent moral in it, well illustrating the nature of Rumor, the '•'■Fama'- of Virgil. 
The Spectator is indebted to him for four or five numbers, of which Nos. 586 
and 593 are upon the nature and use of dreams. 



A PASTORAL. 



My time, ye Muses, was happily spent, 
When Phasbe went with me wherever I went ; 
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast : 
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ; 



1760-1820.] byrom 53 

But now she is gone, and has left me behind ; 
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find 
When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
I thought 'twas the spring ; but, alas ! it was she. 

II. 

With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, 

To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, 

I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay, 

My heart was as light as a feather all day. 

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, 

So strangely uneasy as never was known. 

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, 

And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than a pound. 

in. 

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; 

Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were there, 

'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear} 

But now she is absent, I walk by its side, 

And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide. 

Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain? 

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. 

IV. 

When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, 
And when Phcebe and I were as joyful as they, 
How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time, 
When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ! 
But now in their frolics when by me they pass, 
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass : 
Be still, then I cry ; for it makes me quite mad, 
To see you so merry while I am so sad. 

v. 

My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
Come wagging his tail at my fair one and me ; 
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 
" Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
Cry, Sirrah ! and give him a blow with my crook. 
And 111 give him another ; for why should not Tray 
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away ? 

VI. 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen . 
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! 
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, 
The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made ! 
But now she has left me, though all are still there 
They none of them now so delightful appear: 
'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 
Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

VII. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, 
The laik, linnet, throstle and nightingale too; 



540 BYROM. [GEORGE III. 

Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, 
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. 
But now she is absent, though still they sing on, 
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : 
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, 
Gave every tiling else its agreeable sound. 

vi n. 

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 

And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? 

Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ? 

That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile ? 

Ah ! rivals, 1 see what it was that you dress'd 

And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast; 

You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, 

To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. 

IX. 

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phcebe return ! 

While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes 1 burn ! 

Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, 

I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the ead. 

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, 

And rest so much longer for't when she is here 

Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, 

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. 

x. 

"Will no pitying power that hears me complain, 
Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? 
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; 
But what swain is so silly to live without love ? 
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return, 
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair! 
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair 



THE THREE BLACK CROWS. 

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 
One took the other, briskly, by the hand ; 
Hark-ye, said he, 'tis an odd story this 
About the Crows ! — I don't know what it is, 
Replied his friend. — No! I'm surprised at that; 
Where T came from it is the common chat ; 
But you shall hear : an odd affair indeed ! 
And, that it happen 'd, they are all agreed : 
Not to detain you from a thing so strange, 
A gentleman, that lives not far from Change, 
This week, in short, as all the alley knows, 
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.— 
Impossible ! — Nay, but it's really true; 
I have it from good hands, and so may you. — 
From whose, I pray? — So having named the man, 
Straight to inquire lis curious --omrade ran. 



1760-1820.] king. 541 

Sir, did you tell — relating the affair — 

Yes, sir, I did : and if it's worth your care, 

Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me, 

But, by the by, 'twas two black crows, not three. — 

Resolved to trace so wondrous an event 
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went ; 
Sir — and so forth — Why, yes ; the thing is fact, 
Though in regard to number, not exact ; 
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one, 
The truth of that you may depend upon, 
The gentleman himself told me the case — 
Where may I find him 1 — Why, in such a place. 

Away goes he, and having found him out, 
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt. 
Then to his last informant he referr'd, 
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard ? 
Did you, sir, throw up a black crow 1 — Not I — 
Bless me ! how people propagate a lie ! 
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; 
And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none ! 
Did you say nothing of a crow at all? — 
Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now I recall 
The matter over — And, pray, sir, what was't? 
Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, 
Something that was — as black, sir, as a crow. 



WILLIAM KING. 1685—1763. 

Dr. William Kikg, born at Stepney, in Middlesex, in 1685, u was known 
and esteemed," says his biographer, " by the first men of his time for wit and 
learning ; and must be allowed to have been a polite scholar, an excellent 
orator, and an elegant and easy writer, both in Latin and English." He died 
in 1763, having sketched his own character in an elegant epitaph, in which, 
while he acknowledges his failings, he claims the praise of benevolence, tem- 
perance, and fortitude. The work by which he is now chiefly known is that 
from which the following extracts are taken — " Political and Literary Anec- 
dotes of his own Times." 



Most of the commentators on the Greek and Roman poets think 
it sufficient to explain their author, and to give us the various 
readings. Some few indeed have made us remark the excellency 
of the poet's plan, the elegance of his diction, and the propriety 
of his thoughts, at the same time pointing out as examples the 
most striking and beautiful descriptions. Ruseus, in his comment 
on Virgil, certainly excelled all his fellow-laborers, who were ap- 
pointed to explain and publish a series of the Roman classics for 
the use of the Dauphin. His mythological, historical, and geo 
graphical notes are a great proof of his learning and diligence. 
But he hath not entered into the spirit of the author, and dis 

46 



542 kino. [gegrub in. 

played the great art and judgment of the poet, particularly his 
knowledge of men and manners. The learned Jesuit perhaps 
imagined that remarks of this sort were foreign to the employ- 
ment of a commentator, or for some political reasons he might 
think proper to omit them. And yet, in my opinion, nothing 
could have been more instructive and entertaining, as his com- 
ment was chiefly designed for the use of a young prince. The 
iEneid furnishes us with many examples to the purpose I men- 
tion. However, that I may be the better understood, the follow- 
ing remark will explain my meaning. In the beginning of the 
first book, Juno makes a visit to iEolus, and desires him to raise 
a storm and destroy the Trojan fleet, because she hated the whole 
nation on account of the judgment of Paris, or, as she was pleased 
to express herself, because the Trojans were her enemies. Gens 
inimica mihi, &c. Juno was conscious that she asked a god to 
oblige her by an act which was both unjust and cruel, and there- 
fore she accompanied her request with the offer of Deiopeia, the 
most beautiful nymph in her train: a powerful bribe, and such as 
she imagined iEolus could not resist. She was not disappointed: 
^Eolus accepted her offer, and executed her commands as far as 
he was able. What I have to observe here, in the first place, is 
the necessity of that short speech, in which Juno addresses her- 
self to jEtslus. She had no time to lose. The Trojan fleet was 
in the Tuscan sea, sailing with a fair wind, and in a few hours 
would probably have been in a safe harbor. iEolus therefore an- 
swered in as few words as the goddess had addressed herself to 
him. But his answer is very curious. He takes no notice of the 
offer of Deiopeia, for whom upon any other occasion he would 
have thanked Juno upon his knees. But now, when she was 
given and accepted by him as a bribe, and as the wages of cruelty 
and injustice, he endeavored by his answer to avoid that imputa- 
tion, and pretended he had such a grateful sense of the favors 
which Juno had formerly conferred on him, when she introduced 
him to Jupiter's table, that it was his duty to obey her commands 
on all occasions : 

" Tis your's, great queen, replies the power, to lay 
The task, and mine to listen and obey." 1 

And thus insinuated even to Juno herself, that this was the sole 
motive of his ready compliance with her request. I am here put 
in mind of something similar which happened in Sir Robert Wal- 
pole's administration. He wanted to carry a question in the 
House of Commons, to which he knew there would be great oppo- 
sition, and which was disliked by some of his own dependants. 
As he was passing through the Court of Requests, he met a mem* 

1 Tuus, O Regina, &c, Mn. i. 76. 



1760-1820.] king. 5-13 

ber of the contrary party, whose avar.ce he imagined would not 
reject a large bribe. He took him aside, and said, " Such a ques- 
tion comes on this day ; give me your vote, and here is a bank- 
bill of 2000/. ;" which he put into his hands. The member made 
him this answer : " Sir Robert, you have lately served some of 
my particular friends ; and when my wife was last at court the 
king was very gracious to her, which must have happened at 
your instance. I should therefore think myself very ungrateful 
(putting the bank bill into his pocket) if I were to refuse the favor 
you are now pleased to ask me." This incident, if wrought up 
by a man of humor, would make a pleasant scene in a political 
farce. But to return to Virgil. The short conference between 
Juno and iEolus is a sufficient proof of the poet's excellent judg- 
ment. It demonstrates his knowledge of the world, and more 
particularly his acquaintance with the customs and manners of a 
great prince's court. Hence we may learn, that a bribe, if it be 
large enough, and seasonably offered, will frequently overcome 
the virtue and resolution of persons of the highest rank, and that 
the power of love and beauty will sometimes corrupt a god, and 
compel him to discover a weakness unworthy of a man. 

A REPARTEE. 

A repartee, or a quick and witty answer to an insolent taunt, or 
to any ill-natured or ironical joke or question, is always well re- 
ceived (whether in a public assembly or a private company) by 
the persons who hear it, and gives a reputation to the man who 
makes it. Cicero, in one of his letters to Atticus, informs him of 
some reproaches, a kind of coarse raillery, which passed between 
himself and Clodius in the senate, and seems to exult and value 
himself much on his own repartees : though I do not think that 
this was one of Cicero's excellencies. Atterbury, Bishop of Ro- 
chester, when a certain bill was brought into the House of Lords, 
said, among other things, " that he prophesied last winter this 
bill would be attempted in the present session, and he was sorry 
to find that he had proved a true prophet.''' 1 My Lord Coningsby, 
who spoke after the bishop, and always spoke in a passion, de- 
sired the House to remark, " that one of the Right Reverends had 
set himself forth as a prophet; but for his part he did not know 
what prophet to liken him to, unless to that furious prophet 
Balaam, who was reproved by his own ass." The Hshop, in a 
reply, with great wit and calmness, exposed this rude attack, con- 
cluding thus : " Since the noble Lord hath discovered in our 
manners such a similitude, I am well content to be compared to 
the prophet Balaam : but, my Lords, I am at a loss how to make 
out the other part of the parallel: I am sure that I have been 
reproved by nobody but his Lordship." 



5M KING. [GEORGE in. 



SINGULAR CONDUCT. 

About the year 1706, I knew one Mr. Howe, a sensible well- 
natured man, possessed of an estate of £700 or £5500 per annum : 
he married a young lady of a good family in the west of England ; 
her maiden name was Mallet ; she was agreeable in her person 
and manners, and proved a very good wife. Seven or eight 
years after they had been married, he rose one morning very 
early, and told his wife he was obliged to go to the Tower to trans- 
act some particular business : the same day, at noon, his wife 
received a note from him, in which he informed her that he was 
under a necessity of going to Holland, and should probably be 
absent three weeks or a month. He was absent from her seven- 
teen years, during which time she neither heard from him, or of 
him. The evening before he returned, whilst she was at supper, 
and with her some of her friends and relations, particularly one 
Dr. Rose, 1 a physician, who had married her sister, a billet, with- 
out any name subscribed, was delivered to her, in which the writer 
requested the favor of her to give him a meeting the next evening 
in the Birdcage Walk, in St. James's Park. When she had read 
her billet, she tossed it to Dr. Rose, and laughing, " You see, bro- 
ther," said she, " as old as I am, 1 have got a gallant." Rose, 
who perused the note with more attention, declared it to be Mr. 
Howe's handwriting : this surprised all the company, and so 
much affected Mrs. Howe, that she fainted away: however, she 
soon recovered, when it was agreed that Dr. Rose and his wife, 
with the other gentlemen and ladies who were then at supper, 
should attend Mrs. Howe the next evening to the Birdcage Walk: 
they had not been there more than five or six minutes, when Mr. 
Howe came to them, and after saluting his friends, and embracing 
his wife, walked home with her, and they lived together in great 
harmony from that time to the day of his death. But the most 
curious part of my tale remains to be related. 2 When Howe left 
his wife, they lived in a house in Jermyn-street, near St. James's 
church ; he went no farther than to a little street in Westminster,, 
where he took a room, for which he paid five or six shillings a 
week, and changing his name, and disguising himself by wearing 
a black wig, (for he was a fair man,) he remained in this habita- 
tion during the whole time of his absence. He had had two chil- 
dren by his wife when he departed from her, who were both living 

1 " I was very well acquainted with Dr. Rose, and he frequently entertained me with this remark- 
able story." 

2 London is the only place in all Europe where a man can find a secure retreat, or remain, if ho 
pleases, many years unknown. If he pays constantly for his lodging, for his provisions, and fox 
whatsoever else he wants, nobody will ask a question concerning him, or inquire whence he comes, 
or whither *ae goes 



1760-1820.] king. 545 

at that time : but they both died young in a few years after. 
However, during their lives, the second or third year after their 
father disappeared, Mrs. Howe was obliged to apply for an act of 
parliament to procure a proper settlement of her husband's estate, 
and a provision for herself out of it during his absence, as it was 
uncertain whether he was alive or dead: this act he suffered to 
be solicited and passed, and enjoyed the pleasure of reading the 
progress of it in the votes, in a little coffee-house, near his lodg- 
ing, which he frequented. Upon his quitting his house and 
family in the manner I have mentioned, Mrs. Howe at first ima- 
gined, as she could not conceive any other cause for such abrupt 
elopement, that he had contracted a large debt unknown to her, 
and by that means involved himself in difficulties which he could 
not easily surmount ; and for some days she lived in continual 
apprehensions of demands from creditors, of seizures, executions, 
&c. But nothing of this kind happened ; on the contrary he did 
not only leave his estate quite free and unencumbered, buc he 
paid the bills of every tradesman with whom he had any dealings ; 
and upon examining his papers, in due time after he was gone, 
proper receipts and discharges were found from all persons, whe- 
ther tradesmen or others, with whom he had any manner of trans- 
actions or money concerns. Mrs. Howe, after the death of her 
children, thought proper to lessen her family of servants, and the 
expenses of her housekeeping; and, therefore, removed from her 
house in Jermyn-street to a little house in Brewer-street, near 
Golden Square. Just over against her lived one Salt, 1 a corn- 
chandler. About ten years after Howe's abdication, he contrived 
to make an acquaintance with Salt, and was at length in such a 
degree of intimacy with him, that he usually dined with Salt once 
or twice a week. From the room in which they eat, it was not 
difficult to look into Mrs. Howe's dining-room, where she gene- 
rally sate and received her company; and Salt, who believed 
Howe to be a bachelor, frequently recommended his own wife to 
him as a suitable match. During the last seven years of this gen- 
tleman's absence, he went every Sunday to St. James's church, 
and used to sit in Mr. Salt's seat, where he had a view of his wife, 
but could not easily be seen by her. After he returned home, he 
never would confess, even to his most intimate friends, what was 
the real cause of such a singular conduct ; apparently, there wis 
none : but whatever it was, he was certainly ashamed to own it. 
Dr. Rose has often said to me, that he believed his brother Howe 3 



1 " I knew Salt, who related to me the particulars which I Iiave here mentioned, and many others, 
which have escaped my memory." 

2 " And yet I have seen him after his return addressing his wife in the language of a young bride- 
groom. And I have been assured by some of his most intimate friends, that he treated her during 
the rest of their lives with the greatest kindness and affection." 

2 M 4G* 



546 SHENSTONE. [GEORGE III. 

would never have returned to his wife, if the money which he 
took with him, which was supposed to have been £1000 or £2000, 
had not been all spent : and he must have been a good economist, 
and frugal in his manner of living, otherwise his money would 
scarce have held out ; for I imagine he had his whole fortune by 
him, I mean what he carried away with him in money or bank 
bills, and daily took out of his bag, like the Spaniard in Gil Bias, 
what was sufficient for his expenses. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714—1763. 

This lover of rural life was born at the Leasowes, in Shropshire, in 1714, 
and was distinguished, even in childhood, for his love of reading and thirst 
for knowledge. He was first taught to read by an old village dame, whom 
he has immortalized in his poem after Spenser's manner, called "The School- 
Mistress." He was sent to Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1732, where he con- 
tinued his studies for ten years. Here he published, at intervals, his princi- 
pal poems, which consist of elegies, odes, ballads, the " Judgment of Hercules," 
and several other pieces. In 1745 he went to reside on his paternal estate, 
to which he devoted all his time, talents, and capital, so that the Leasowes 
became, under his care, a perfect fairy-land. " Now," says Dr. Johnson, " was 
excited his delight in real pleasures, and his ambition of rural elegance : he 
began from this time to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entan- 
gle his walks, and to wind his waters ; which he did with such judgment 
and such fancy, as made his little domain the envy of the great, and the ad- 
miration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by de- 
signers." But all this was attended with great expense. He spent his estate 
in adorning it, and his death, which took place in 1763, was probably has- 
tened by his anxieties. 1 

Besides his poems, he wrote "Essays on Men and Manners," which display 
much ease and grace of style, united to judgment and discrimination. "They 
have not the mellow ripeness of thought and learning of Cowley's essays, but 
they resemble them more closely than any others in our language." " He is a 
pleasing writer," says Campbell, " both in his lighter and graver vein. His 
genius is not forcible, but it settles in mediocrity without meanness. But with 
all the beauties of the Leasowes in our minds, it may still be regretted, that, in- 
stead of devoting his whole soul to clumping beeches, and projecting mottoes 
for summer-houses, he had not gone more into living nature for subjects, and 
described her interesting realities with the same fond and natural touches 
which give so much delightfulness to his portrait of 



THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 

To think how modest worth neglected lies ; 
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn 
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise ; 

1 See the fine piece of Goldsmith, entitled "History of a Poet's Garden. 



1700-1820.] SHENSTONB. 547 

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try- 
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; 
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village mark'd with little spire, 

Embowerd in trees, and hardly known to fame, 
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we school-mistress name ; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; 
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 

For unkempt hair, or task unconn d, are sorely shent. 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 

Which learning near her little dome did stow ; 

Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 

Though now so wide its waving branches flow ; 

And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 

But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low ; 

And as they lookYl they found their horror grew, 

And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. 

******* 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 

On which the tribe their gambols do display; 

And at the door imprisoning board is seen, 

Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray ; 

Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 

The noises intermix*d, which thence resound, 

Do learning's little tenement betray ; 

Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound 
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 

Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 

Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, 

As is the harebell that adorns the field: 

And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 

Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, 

With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd ; 

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, 
And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. 
******* 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 

'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 

'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair, 

'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare : 

And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around, 

Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; 

For they in gaping wonderment abound, 
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on grcuni 



518 SIIENSTONE. [GEORGE in, 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 

Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, 

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear: 

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, 

Who should not honor'd eld with these revere: 

For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 

The plodding pattern of the busy dame : 

Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, 

Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 

Such favor did her past deportment claim; 

And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground 

Fragment of bread, she would collect the same ; 

For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. 



Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, 

Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; 
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, 
But in her garden found a summer seat; 
Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, 
While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
All, for the nonce, untuning every string, 

Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they to sing. 

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed ; 
And, in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore 
The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed; 
And tortious death was true devotion's meed ; 
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, 
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 
And lawnly saints in smouldering flames did burn : 

Ah ! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return. 

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem 

By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, 
In which, when he receives his diadem, 
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed, 
The matron sate ; and some with rank she graced, 
(The source of children's and of courtier's pride !) 
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; 
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, 

But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; 
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 
And some entice with pittance small of praise; 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
While With quaint arts, the giddy crowd she sways j 



1760-1820.] dodsley. 5-49 

Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 
******* 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, 

And liberty unbars her prison door ; 

And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 

And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er 

With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 

A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, 

Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I implore ! 

For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, 
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. 

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 

And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers, 

For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid ; 

For never may ye taste more careless hours 

In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. 

O vain to seek delight in earthly thing ! 

But most in courts where proud ambition towers ; 

Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring 
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 



ROBERT DODSLEY. 1703—1764. 



This eminent bookseller and respectable author was born at Mansfield, in 
1703. Being placed as an apprentice to a stocking-weaver, and not liking his 
.situation, he ran off to London, and took the place of a footman, and in 1732 
published a volume of poems under the title of " The Muse in Livery, or the 
Footman's Miscellany," which attracted considerable attention. His next pro- 
duction was a dramatic piece called " The Toyshop," which was acted with 
great success, and the profits of which enabled him to set up as * bookseller. 
Patronized by Pope and other authors of the day, his shop in Pali Mall soon 
became the resort of a large literary circle ; and so rapidly did his business 
increase, that in his latter days Dodsley might be considered as standing at 
the head of the bookselling trade in London. Having acquired a competent 
fortune by his double occupation of author and bookseller, he retired from 
business, to enjoy the fruits of his exertions, but died at Durham, while on a 
visit to a friend, September 25, 1764. 

Besides the above, Dodsley wrote and published, anonymously, that well 
known and ingenious little work, " The Economy of Human Life," which is 
lull of the best moral maxims. He also wrote a tragedy called " Cleone," 
which was well received, and a farce called " The King and the Miller of 
Mansfield." But he is now more known for the works which he projected 
and published, than for his own productions. One of these was the " Pre- 
ceptor," a very useful book, in 2 vols., containing treatises on various subjects, 
and for which Dr. Johnson wrote a preface. Another was his " Collection of 
Old Plays," in 12 vols. His "Collection of Poems in Six Volumes, by Several 
Hands," is still a very valuable book. But he is most known as the projector 
of the "Annual Register," in 1758, which still goes by his name. He also has 
the credit of having first encouraged the talents of Dr. Johnson, by purchasing 
his poem of "London," in 1738, for ten guineas, and of having, many years 
afterwards, been the projector of the English Dictionary. 



550 DODSLEY. [GEORGE III. 

EMULATION. 

If thy soul thirsteth for honor, if thy ear hath any pleasure in 
the voice of praise, raise thyself from the dust whereof thou art 
made, and exalt thy aim to something that is praiseworthy. 

The oak, that now spreadeth its branches towards the heavens, 
was once but an acorn in the bowels of the earth. 

Endeavor to be first in thy calling, whatever it be ; neither let 
any one go before thee in well-doing : nevertheless, do not envy 
the merits of another, but improve thine own talents. 

Scorn also to depress thy competitor by dishonest or unworthy 
methods ; strive to raise thyself above him only by excelling him 
so shall thy contest for superiority be crowned with honor, if not 
with success. 

By a virtuous emulation the spirit of man is exalted within him ; 
he panteth after fame, and rejoiceth as a racer to run his course. 

The examples of eminent men are in his visions by night ; and 
his delight is to follow them all the day long. He formeth great 
designs; he rejoiceth in the execution thereof; and his name 
goeth forth to the ends of the world. But the heart of the envi- 
ous man is gall and bitterness ; his tongue spitteth venom ; the 
success of his neighbor breaketh his rest. 

He sitteth in his cell repining ; and the good that happeneth to 
another is to him an evil. Hatred and malice feed upon his heart ; 
and there is no rest in him. He feeleth in his own breast no love 
of goodness ; and therefore believeth his neighbor is like unto 
himself. 

He endeavors to depreciate those who excel him ; and putteth 
an evil interpretation on all their doings. 

He lieth on the watch, and meditates mischief; but the detes- 
tation of man pursueth him ; he is crushed as a spider in his own 
web. 

TEMPERANCE. 

The nearest approach thou canst make to happiness on this 
side the grave, is to enjoy from heaven health, wisdom, and peace 
of mind. These blessings, if thou possessest, and wouldst pre- 
serve to old age, avoid the allurements of voluptuousness, and fly 
from her temptations. 

When she spreadeth her delicacies on the board, when her 
wine sparkleth in the cup, when she smileth upon thee, and per- 
suadeth thee to be joyful and happy ; then is the hour of danger 
then let Reason stand firmly on her guard. For, if thou hearken- 
est unto the words of her adversary, thou art deceived and be- 
trayed. The joy which she promiseth, changeth to madness; 
and her enjoyments lead on to diseases and death. 

Look lound her board, cast thine eyes upon her guests, and 



1760-1820.] dodslet. 551 

observe those who have been allured by her smiles, who have 
listened to her temptations. Are they not meagre ? are they not 
sickly ? are they not spiritless ? 

Their short hours of jollity and riot are followed by tedious days 
of pain and dejection ; she hath debauched and palled their appe- 
tites, that they have now no relish for her nicest dainties : hei 
votaries are become her victims ; the just and natural consequence 
which God hath ordained in the constitution of things, for the pun- 
ishment of those who abuse his gifts. 

But who is she, that with graceful steps, and with a lively air, 
trips over yonder plain ? The rose blusheth on her cheeks ; the 
sweetness of the morning breatheth from her lips ; joy, tempered 
with innocence and modesty, sparkleth in her eyes ; and from the 
cheerfulness of her heart she singeth as she walks. 

Her name is Health ; she is the daughter of Exercise and 
Temperance ; their sons inhabit the mountains ; they are brave, 
active, and lively ; and partake of all the beauties and virtues of 
their sister. 

Vigor stringeth their nerves ; strength dwelleth in their bones ; 
and labor is their delight all the day long. The employments of 
their father excite their appetites, and the repasts of their mother 
refresh them. To combat the passions, is their delight ; to con- 
quer evil habits, their glory. Their pleasures are moderate, and 
therefore they endure ; their repose is short, but sound and un- 
disturbed. Their blood is pure ; their minds are serene ; and the 
physician knoweth not the way to their habitations. 

ANGER. 

As the whirlwind in its fury teareth up trees, and deformeth 
the face of Nature, or as an earthquake in its convulsions over- 
turneth cities ; so the rage of an angry man throweth mischief 
around him : danger and destruction wait on hi& hand. 

But consider, and forget not, thine own weakness ; so shalt thou 
pardon the failings of others. Indulge not thyself in the passion 
of anger ; it is whetting a sword to wound thy own breast, or 
murder thy friend. 

If thou bearest slight provocations with patience, it shall be im- 
puted unto thee for wisdom ; and if thou wipest them from thy 
remembrance, thy heart shall feel rest, thy mind shall not re 
proach thee. 

Do nothing in thy passion. Why wilt thou put to sea in the 
violence of a storm ? If it be difficult to rule thine anger, it is 
wise to prevent it : avoid, therefore, all occasions of falling into 
wrath; or guard thyself against them whenever they occur 



552 DODSLEY. [GEORGE III. 

Harbor not revenge in thy breast; it will torment thy heart, 
and discolor its best inclinations. 

Be always more ready to forgive than to return an injury : he 
that watches for an opportunity of revenge, lieth in wait against 
himself, and draweth down mischief on his own head. 

A mild answer to an angry man, like water cast upon the fire, 
abateth his heat ; and from an eneirry, he shall become thy friend. 

Consider how few things are worthy of anger ; and thou wilt 
wonder that any but fools should be wroth. In folly or weakness 
it always beginneth ; but remember, and be well assured, it sel- 
dom concludeth without repentance. On the heels of Folly tread- 
eth Shame ; at the back of Anger standeth Remorse. 

WOMAN. 

Give ear, fair daughter of Love, to the instructions of Prudence ; 
and let the precepts of Truth sink deep in thine heart : so shall 
the charms of thy mind add lustre to thy form ; and thy beauty, 
like the rose it resembleth, shall retain its sweetness when its 
bloom is withered. 

In the spring of thy youth, in the morning of thy days, when 
the eyes of men gaze on thee with delight ; ah ! hear with cau* 
tion their alluring words ; guard well thy heart, nor listen to their 
soft seducements. 

Remember thou art made man's reasonable companion, not the 
slave of his passion ; the end of thy being is to assist him in the 
toils of life, to soothe him with thy tenderness, and recompense 
his care with soft endearments. 

Who is she that winneth the heart of man, that subdueth him 
to love, and reigneth in his breast ? Lo ! yonder she walketh in 
maiden sweetness, with innocence in her mind, and modesty on 
her cheek. Her hand seeketh employment ; her foot delighteth 
not in gadding abroad. 

She is clothed with neatness ; she is fed with temperance ; hu- 
mility and meekness are as a crown of glory circling her head. 
Decency is in all her words ; in her answers are mildness and 
truth. Submission and obedience are the lessons of her life ; and 
peace and happiness her reward. 

Bdore her steps walketh Prudence ; Virtue attendeth at her 
right hand. The tongue of the licentious is dumb in her pre- 
sence ; the awe of her virtue keepeth him silent. 

When Scandal is busy, and the fame of her neighbor is tossed 
trom tongue to tongue, if Charity and Good -nature open not her 
mouth, the finger of Silence resteth on her lip. Her breast is the 
mansion of goodness ; and therefore she suspecteth no evil in 
others 



1760-1820.] dodsley. 553 

Happy were the man that should make her his wife ; happy 
the child that shall call her mother. 

She presideth in the house, and there is peace ; she command- 
eth with judgment, and is obeyed. She ariseth in the morning ; 
she considers her affairs ; and appointeth to every one their pro- 
per business. 

The care of her family is her whole delight ; to that alone she 
applieth her study : and elegance with frugality is seen in her 
mansions. The prudence of her management is an honor to her 
husband, and he heareth her praise with silent delight. She in- 
formeth the minds of her children with wisdom : she fashioneth 
their manners from the example of her own goodness. 

The word of her mouth is the law of their youth ; the motion 
of her eye commandeth their obedience. She speaketh, and her 
servants fly ; she pointeth, and the thing is done : for the law of 
love is in their hearts ; her kindness addeth wings to their feet. 

In prosperity she is not puffed up; in adversity she healeth the 
wounds of Fortune with patience. 

The troubles of her husband are alleviated by her counsels, and 
sweetened by her endearments ; he putteth his heart in her bosom, 
and receiveth comfort. 

Happy is the man that hath made her his wife ; happy the 
child that calleth her mother. 



RICH AND POOR. 

The man to whom God hath given riches, and a mind to em- 
ploy them aright, is peculiarly favored, and highly distinguished. 
He looketh on his wealth with pleasure ; because it affordeth him 
the means to do good. 

He protecteth the poor that are injured ; he suffereth not the 
mighty to oppress the weak. He seeketh out objects of compas- 
sion ; he inquireth into their wants ; he relieveth them with judg- 
ment, and without ostentation. He assisteth and rewardeth merit; 
he encourageth ingenuity, and liberally promoteth every useful 
design. 

He carrieth on great works; his country is enriched, and the 
laborer is employed : he formeth new schemes, and the arts re 
ceive improvement. He considereth the superfluities of his table 
as belonging to the poor, and he defraudeth them not. The be 
nevolence of his mind is not checked by his fortune. He rejoic- 
eth therefore in riches, and his joy is blameless. 

But woe unto him that heapeth up wealth in abundance, and 
rejoiceth alone in the possession thereof; that grindeth the face 
of the poor, and considereth not the sweat of their brows. 

47 



554 DODSLEY. [GEORGE III. 

He thriveth on oppression without feeling ; the ruin of his bro- 
ther disturbeth him not. The tears of the orphan he drinketh as 
milk ; the cries of the widow are music to his ear. His heart is 
hardened with the love of wealth ; no grief or distress can make 
impression upon it. 

But the curse of iniquity pursueth him ; he liveth in continual 
fear. The anxiety of his mind, and the rapacious desires of his 
own soul, take vengeance upon him for the calamities he hath 
brought upon others. 

O ! what are the miseries of poverty, in comparison with the 
gnawings of this man's heart ! 

Let the poor man comfort himself, yea, rejoice ; for he hath 
many reasons. He sitteth down to his morsel in peace ; his table 
is not crowded with flatterers and devourers. He is not embar- 
rassed with dependants, nor teased with the clamors of solicita- 
tion. Debarred from the dainties of the rich, he escapeth all their 
diseases. The bread that he eateth, is it not sweet to his taste ? 
the water he drinketh, is it not pleasant to his thirst ? yea, far 
more delicious than the richest draughts of the luxurious. His 
labor preserveth his health, and produceth him a repose to which 
the downy bed of Sloth is a stranger. He limiteth his desires 
with humility ; and the calm of contentment is sweeter to his soul 
than the acquirements of wealth and grandeur. 

Let not the rich, therefore, presume on his riches, nor the poor 
despond in his poverty ; for the providence of God dispenseth 
happiness to them both, and the distribution thereof is more 
equally made than the fool can believe. 

BENEVOLENCE. 

When thou considerest thy wants, when thou beholdest thy im- 
perfections, acknowledge his goodness, O Man ! who honored thee 
with reason, endowed thee with speech, and placed thee in society 
to receive and confer reciprocal helps and mutual obligations. 

Thy food, thy clothing, thy convenience of habitation, thy pro- 
tection from the injuries, thy enjoyment of the comforts and the 
pleasures of life, thou owest to the assistance of others, and couldst 
not enjoy but in the bands of society. It is thy duty, therefore, 
to be friendly to mankind, as it is thy interest that men should be 
friendly to thee. 

As the rose breatheth sweetness from its own nature, so the 
heart of a benevolent man produceth good works. 

He enjoyeth the ease and tranquillity of his own breast ; anj 
rejoiceth in the happiness and prosperity of his neighbor. He 
openeth not his ear unto slander ; the faults and the failings of 



1760-1820.] young. 555 

men give pam to his heart. His desire is to do good, arid he 
searcheth out the occasions thereof: in removing the oppression 
of another, he relieveth himself. 

From the largeness of his mind, he comprehendeth in his wishes 
the happiness of all men ; and from the generosity of his heart, he 
endeavoreth to promote it. 



EDWARD YOUNG. 1681—1765. 

Edwabd Young, the celebrated author of the " Night Thoughts," was born 
at Upham, in Hampshire, in 1681. He was educated at Oxford, where he 
upok his degree of Bachelor of Civil Law in 1714, and his Doctor's degree in 
1719. That he was distinguished for his ingenuity and learning above his 
fi'l low-students and contemporaries, is known by a complaint of Tindal the 
infidel, who said, « The other boys I can always answer, because I know 
where they have their arguments, which I have read a hundred times : but 
that fellow Young is continually pestering me with something of his own." 
After publishing a number of poetical pieces of rather indifferent merit, in 
1721 he gave to the pub he his tragedy of "Revenge," which is one of the 
finest efforts of his genius; but unfortunately it was written after the model 
of the French drama, and though the thoughts are refined and full of imagi- 
nation, and a true poetic feeling pervades the whole, it has hardly vitality 
enough to keep it alive as a drama. 

In 1725 he published the first of his Satires, and in three or four years the 
other six followed, under the title of " The Love of Fame, the Universal Pas- 
sion." They are evidently the production of a mind rendered acute by ob- 
servation, enriched by reflection, and polished with wit ; and they abound in 
ingenious and humorous allusions. Their chief defect is in the perpetual 
exaggeration of the sentiment. Goldsmith says, that " they were in higher 
reputation when published than they stand at present ;" and that " Young 
seems fonder of dazzling than of pleasing, of raising our admiration for his 
wit than of our dislike of the follies he ridicules." 1 

In 1728 Young entered the church, and was appointed chaplain to George 
the Second. Three years after, he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, daughter of 
the Earl of Litchfield, and widow of Colonel Lee. She died in 1741, leaving 
one son. A daughter whom she had by her former husband, and who was 
married to Mr. Temple, son of Lord Palmerston, died in 1736, and Mr. Tem- 
ple four years after. It has generally been believed that Mr. and Mrs. Tern 
pie were the Philander and Narcissa of the Night Thoughts. Mrs. Temple 
died of a consumption, at Lyons, on her way to Nice, and Young accompanied 
her to the continent. 2 Some, most inconsiderately, have identified Young's 
son with the Lorenzo of the Night Thoughts. This is absurd, for when this 
character of the finished infidel was drawn by the father, the son was only 
eight years old. 

1 Essay on English Poetry. Young's Satires were published before those of Pope. 

2 To her death at Lyons the two lines In Night Third doubtless allude, for the city authorities re- 
fused to allow her to be buried in "consecrated" ground - 

" While Nature melted, Superstition raved ; 
That mourn'd the dead, and this denied a grav s." 



556 ^ YOUNG. [GEORGE IIL 

Of the Night Thoughts, which were published from 1742 to 1744, Young's 
favorite and most finished poem, it may be said that they show a mind stored 
with reading and reflection, purified by virtuous feelings, and supported by 
religious hope. There are in them great fertility of thought and luxuriance 
of imagination, uncommon originality in style, and an accumulation of argu- 
ment and illustration which seems almost boundless. 1 "In this poem," says 
Dr. Johnson, " Young has exhibited a very wide display of original poetry, 
variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions; a wilderness of 
thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue, and of 
every odor." 

In 1756 Dr. Joseph Warton paid a very just and elegant tribute to the po- 
etical reputation of Young, by dedicating to him his most learned and instruc- 
tive " Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope." Young was at that time 
the only survivor of that brotherhood of poets who had adorned and delighted 
the preceding age, and among whom Pope shone with such unrivalled lustre. 
In 1762, when he was upwards of fourscore, Young printed his poem of 
" Resignation," in which, for the first time, a decay of his powers is mani- 
fested. In April, 1765, he closed his long, useful, and virtuous life. He had 
performed no duty for the last three or four years, but he retained his intellects 
to the last. 

In his personal manners, Young is said to have been a man of very social 
habits, and the animating soul of every company with whom he mixed. No- 
body ever said more brilliant things in conversation. Dr. Warton, who knew 
him well, says that he was one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, 
most exemplary in his life and sincere in his religion. If he stooped below 
the dignity of his high profession, in courting worldly favor and applause, as 
without doubt he did, no one has more convincingly shown how utterly 
worthless was the object of this inconsistent ambition. 

As a poet, if he ranks not in the first class, he takes a very high place in 
the second. If his taste be not the purest, or his judgment not always the 
best, he has an exuberance, a vigor, and an originality of genius, which amply 
atone for all his defects. As respects the moral influence of his poetry, there 
has been and can be but one opinion. No one can rise from the studious 
reading of the Night Thoughts, without feeling more the value of time, and 
the importance of improving it aright, both for the life that now is, and for 
that which is to come. It is a book full of the purest and noblest sentiments ; 
which, if followed, cannot fail of making us wiser and better. 



INTRODUCTION TO THE NIGHT THOUGHTS. THE VALUE OF TIME. 
THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! 

He, like the world, his ready visit pays 

Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes , 

Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 

And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, 
1 wake : How happy they, who wake no more ! 
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. 



1 See Life, by Rev. J. Mitford. Read, also, his Life by Dr. Johnson— a biographical sketch In 
Drake's Essays— and another in the sixth volume of Campbell's Specimens. The criticisms of the 
latter, however I cannot consider just. 



1760-1820.] young. 557 

1 wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 

Tumultuous ; where my wreck'd, desponding thought, 

From wave to wave of fancied misery, 

At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 

Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain 

(A bitter change !) severer for severe. 

The Day too short for my distress ; and Night, 

E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, 

Is sunshine to the color of my fate. 

Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. 
Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound ! 
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds ; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; 
An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilfd ; 
Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. 

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue, 
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours : 
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch : 
How much is to be done ! My hopes and fears 
Start up alarm'd, and o"er life's narrow verge 
Look down — On what 1 a fathomless abyss 5 
A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me, 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder He, who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
From different natures marvellously mixt, 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 
Distinguished link in Being's endless chain ! 
Midway from Nothing to the Deity ! 
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt ! 
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 
And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger, 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, 
And wondering at her own : How reason reels ! 
O what a miracle to man is man, 
Triumphantly distress'd ! what joy, what dread : 
Alternately transported, and alarm'd ! 
What can preserve my life ! or what destroy ! 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; 
Legions of angels can't confine me there. 
47* 



YOUNG. [GE0RG3 ILL 

'Tis past conjecture ; all things rise in proof: 
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread, 
What though my soul fantastic measures trod 
O'er fairy fields ; or mourn 'd along the gloom 
Of pathless woods ; or, down the craggy steep 
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool ; 
Or scaled the cliff ; or danced on hollow winds, 
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? 
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature 
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; 
Active, aerial, towering, unconfined, 
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. 
E"en silent night proclaims my sou] immortal: 
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day. 
For human weal, heaven husbands all events ; 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 

Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost ! 
Why wanders -wretched thought their tombs around, 
In infidel distress? Are angels there? 
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire ? 

They live ! they greatly live a life on earth 
Unkindled, unconceived ; and from an eye 
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 
On me, more justly number d with the dead. 
Tbis is the desert, this the solitude : 
How populous, how vital, is the grave ! 
This is creation's melancholy vault, 
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; 
The land of apparitions, empty shades ! 
All, all on earth, is Shadow, all beyond 
Is Substance ; the reverse is folly's creed : 
How solid all, where change shall be no more ! 

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts, 
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 
Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, 
Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by heaven 
To fly at infinite ; and reach it there, 
Where seraphs gather immortality, 
On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. 
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow, 
In His full beam, and ripen for the just, 
Where momentary ages are no more ! 
Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire 
And is it in the flight of threescore years, 
To push eternity from human thought, 
And smother souls immortal in the dust ? 
A soul immortal, spending all her fires, 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, 
Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarm'd, 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, 
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. 



1760-1820.1 young 559 

man's resolutions to reform. 

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears 
The palm, " That all men are about to live," 
For ever on the brink of being born. 
All pay themselves the compliment to think 
They one day shall not drivel : and their pride 
On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
At least, their own ; their future selves applaud ; 
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails ; 
That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign ; 
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ; 
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool : 
And scarce in human wisdom, to do more. 
All promise is poor dilatory man, 
And that through every stage : when young, indeed, 
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, 
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 
At thirty man suspects himself a fool : 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
At fifty chides his infamous delay, 
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
In all the magnanimity of thought 
Resolves ; and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 

And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. 
All men think all men mortal but themselves ; 
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; 
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. 
As from the wing, no scar the sky retains ; 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; 
So dies in human hearts the thought of death : 
E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds 
Oer those we love, we drop it in their grave. 

LIFE AND DEATH. 

Life makes the soul dependent on the dust ; 
Death gives her wings to mount above the spheres. 
Through chinks, styled organs, dim life peeps at light; 
Death bursts th' involving cioud, and all is day ; 
All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. 
Death has feign'd evils, nature shall not feel ; 
Life, ills substantial, wisdom cannot shun. 
Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven ! 
By tyrant life dethroned, imprison'd, pain'dl 
By death enlarged, ennobled, deified'? 
Death but entombs the body ; life the soul. 

DYING RICH. 

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame ? 



660 YOUNG. [GEORGE in. 

Eartlrs highest station ends in " Here he lies," 
And " dust to dust" concludes her noblest song. 
If this song lives, posterity shall know- 
One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, 
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late; 
Nor on his subtle death-bed planud his scheme 
For future vacancies in church or state ; 
Some avocation deeming it — to die, 
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; 
Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of hell ! 

SOCIETY NECESSARY FOR HAPPINESS. 

Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, 
And sweeter than the sweet ambrosial hive, 
What is she, but the means of Happiness 1 
That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool ; 
A melancholy fool, without her bells. 
Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives 
The precious end, which makes our wisdom wi^e. 
Nature, in zeal for human amity, 
Denies, or damps, an undivided joy: 
Joy is an import ; joy is an exchange ; 
Joy flies monopolists : it calls for Two ; 
Rich fruit! heaven-planted! never pluck'd by One. 
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give 
To social man true relish of himself. 
Full on ourselves, descending in a line, 
Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in delight : 
Delight intense is taken by rebound ; 
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast. 

INSUFFICIENCY OF GENIUS AND STATION WITHOUT VIRTUE. 

Genius and art, ambition's boasted wings, 
Our boast but ill deserve. A feeble aid ! 
Dasdalian enginery ! If these alone 
Assist our flight, fame's flight is glory's fall. 
Heart merit wanting, mount we ne'er so high, 
Our height is but the gibbet of our name. 
A celebrated wretch, when I behold ; 
When I behold a genius bright, and base, 
Of towering talents, and terrestrial aims ; 
Methinks I see, as thrown from her high sphere, 
The glorious fragments of a soul immortal, 
With rubbish mix'd, and glittering in the dust. 
Struck at the splendid, melancholy sight, 
At once compassion soft, and envy, rise — 
But wherefore envy? Talents angel-bright, 
If wanting worth, are shining instruments 
In false ambition's hand, to finish faults 
Illustrious, and give infamy renown. 

Great ill is an achievement of great powers. 
Plain sense but rarely leads us far astray. 
Reason the means, affections choose our endj 



1760-1820.] young. 561 

Means have no merit, if our end amiss. 

If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain ; 

Hearts are proprietors of all applause. 

Right ends and means make wisdom : Worldly-wise 

Is but half-witted, at its highest praise. 

Let genius then despair to make thee great ; 

Nor natter station : What is station high ? 

'Tis a proud mendicant ; it boasts and begs ; 

It begs an alms of homage from the throng, 

And oft the throng denies its charity. 

Monarchs and ministers are awful names ; 

Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir. 

Religion, public order, both exact 

External homage, and a supple knee. 

To beings pompously set up, to serve 

The meanest slave ; all more is merit's due, 

Her sacred and inviolable right 

Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. 

Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth; 

Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. 

Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account, 

And vote the mantle into majesty. 

Let the small savage boast his silver fur; 

His royal robe unborrow'd and unbought, 

His own, descending fairly from his sires. 

Shall man be proud to wear his livery, 

And souls in ermine scorn a soul without ? 

Can place or lessen us or aggrandize ? 

Pygmies are pygmies still, though perch'd on Alps; 

And pyramids are pyramids in vales. 

Each man makes his own stature, builds himself: 

Virtue alone outbuilds the pyramids: 

Her monuments shall last, when Egypt's fall. 

Of these sure truths dost thou demand the cause 1 

The cause is lodged in immortality. 

Hear, and assent. Thy bosom burns for power ; 

What station charms thee ? I'll install thee there ; 

'Tis thine. And art thou greater than before 1 

Then thou before wast something less than man. 

Has thy new post betray'd thee into pride ? 

That treacherous pride betrays thy dignity ; 

That pride defames humanity, and calls 

The being mean, which staffs or strings can raise. 

High worth is elevated place: 'Tis more; 
It makes the post stand candidate for Thee ; 
Makes more than monarchs — makes an honest man ; 
Though no exchequer it commands, 'tis wealth ; 
And though it wears no ribbon, 'tis renown ; 
Renown, that would not quit thee, though disgraced, 
Nor leave thee pendent on a master's smile. 
Other ambition nature interdicts ; 
Nature proclaims it most absurd in man, 
By pointing at his origin, and end; 
Milk, and a swath, at first, his whole demand ; 
His whole domain, at last, a turf, or stone ; 
To whom, between, a world may seem too small. 
2N 



562 FALCONER. [GEORGE III. 



THE LOVE OF PRAISE. 

What will not men attempt for sacred praise ? 
The Love of Praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, 
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart : 
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ; 
The modest shun it, but to make it sure. 
O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells ; 
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells : 
'Tis Tory, Whig ; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, 
Harangues in Senates, squeaks in Masquerades. 
Here, to Steele's humor makes a bold pretence ; 
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. 
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head, 
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead ; 
Nor ends with life ; but nods in sable plumes, 
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. 

Satire i. 

THE LANGUID LADY. 

The languid lady next appears in state, 
Who was not born to carry her own weight ; 
She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid 
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. 
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, 
She, by just stages, journeys round the room : 
But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs 
To scale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs. 
My fan ! let others say, who laugh at toil ; 
Fan ! hood ! glove ! scarf! is her laconic style ; 
And that is spoke with such a dying fall, 
That Betty rather sees, than hears the call : 
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, 
Piece out th' idea her faint words deny. 
O listen with attention most profound ! 
Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. 
And help ! oh help ! her spirits are so dead, 
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. 
If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er, 
She pants! she sinks away! and is no more. 
Let the robust and the gigantic carve, 
Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve: 
But chew she must herself; ah, cruel fate ! 
That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat. 



WILLIAM FALCONER. 1730—1769. 

Wuiiam Falconer was the son of a barber in Edinburgh, and was born 
in the year 1730. He had very few advantages of education, and in early 
life went to sea in the merchant service. He was afterwards mate of a ves- 
sel that was wrecked in the Levant, and was one of three only, out of the 
crew, that were saved ; a catastrophe winch formed the subject of his futtire 



1760-1820.] falconer. 563 

poem, "The Shipwreck," which he published in 1762, and on which his 
chief claim to merit rests. Early in 1769 his " Marine Dictionary" appeared, 
which has been spoken highly of by those who are capable of estimating its 
merits. In the latter part of the same year he embarked in the Aurora, for 
India, but the vessel was never heard of after she passed the Cape, " so thai 
the poet of the Shipwreck may be supposed to have perished by the same 
species of calamity which he had rehearsed." 1 

The subject of the Shipwreck and the fate of its author, bespeak an uncom 
mon partiality in its favor. If we pay respect to the ingenious scholar, wlio 
can produce agreeable verses amidst the shades of retirement or the shelves 
of his library, how much more interest must we take in the "ship-boy on the 
high and giddy mast," cherishing refined visions of fancy at the hour which 
he may casually snatch from fatigue and danger ! His poem has the sensible 
charm of appearing a transcript of reality, and from its vividness and powex 
of description, powerfully interests the feelings, and leaves a deep impression 
ol truth and nature on the mind. 

THE VESSEL GOING TO PIECES. DEATH OF ALBERT, THE COM- 
MANDER. 

With mournful look the seamen eyed the strand 
Where death's inexorable jaws expand : 
Swift from their minds elapsed all dangers past, 
As, dumb with terror, they beheld the last. 
Now on the trembling shrouds, before, behind, 
In mute suspense they mount into the wind — 
The Genius of the deep, on rapid wing, 
The black eventful moment seem'd to bring. 
The fatal Sisters, on the surge before, 
Yoked their infernal horses to the prore. — 
The steersmen now received their last command 
To wheel the vessel sidelong to the strand. 
Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend, 
High on the platform of the top ascend ; 
Fatal retreat! for while the plunging prow 
Immerges headlong in the wave below, 
Down-prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends, 
And from above the stem deep crashing rends. 
Beneath her beak the floating ruins lie ; 
The foremast totters, unsustain'd on high : 
And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea, 
Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er her lee ; 
While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay 
Drags the main-topmast from its post away. 
Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain 
Through hostile floods their vessel to regain. 
The waves they buffet, till, bereft of strength, 
O'erpower'd they yield to cruel fate at length. 
The hostile waters close around their head, 
They sink for ever, number'd with the dead ! 

Those who remain their fearful doom await, 
Nor longer mourn their lost companions' fate. 

1 Campbell's Specimens, vol. vi. p. 98. 



564 FaLCONER. [GEORGE III. 

The heart that bleeds with sorrows all its own, 

Forgets the pangs of friendship to bemoan. — 

Albert and Rodmond and Palemon here, 

Widi young Arion, on the mast appear ; 

Even they, amid th' unspeakable distress, 

In every look distracting thoughts confess; 

In every vein the refluent blood congeals, 

And every bosom fatal terror feels. 

Inclosed with all the demons of the main, 

They view'd th' adjacent shore, but view'd in vain. 

Such torments in the drear abodes of hell, 

Where sad despair laments with rueful yell, 

Such torments agonize the damned breast, 

While fancy views the mansions of the blest. 

For Heaven's sweet help their suppliant cries implore; 

But Heaven, relentless, deigns to help no morei 

And now, laslfd on by destiny severe, 
With horror fraught, the dreadful scene drew near! 
The ship hangs hovering on die verge of drath, 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath i — 
In vain, alas ! the sacred shades of yore 
Would arm the ntind with philosophic lore ; 
In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, 
To smile serene amid the pangs of death. 
E'en Zeno's self, and Epictetus old, 
This fell abyss had shudder'd to behold. 
Had Socrates, for god-like virtue famed, 
And wisest of the sons of men proclaim'd, 
Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress, 
His soul had trembled to its last recess ! — 
O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above, 
This last tremendous shock of fate to prove. 
The tottering frame of reason yet sustain! 
Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! 

In vain the cords and axes were prepared, 
For now th' audacious seas insult the yard ; 
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade 
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
Her shatter'd top half buried in the skies, 
Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground, 
Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels; 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 
The bleeding bull beneath the murd"rer's blows.— 
Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock! 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes 
In wild despair ; while yet another stroke, 
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; 
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 



1760-1820.] falconer. 565 

At length asunder torn, her frame divides, 
And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides, 

As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung, 
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung : 
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were ^ast, 
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast ; 
Awhile they bore th' o'er whelming billows' rage, 
Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; 
Till all benumb'd and feeble they forego 
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. 
Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown 
On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
Three with Palemon on their skill depend, 
And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. 
Now on die mountain- wave on high they ride, 
Then downward plunge beneath th' involving tide ; 
Till one, who seems in agony -to strive, 
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; 
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, 
And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! 

Next, unhappy chief! th' eternal doom 
Of Heaven decreed thee to the briny tomb ! 
What scenes of misery torment thy view ! 
"What painful struggles of thy dying crew ! 
Thy perish'd hopes all buried in the flood, 
O'erspread with corses ! red with human blood ! 
So pierced with anguish hoary Priam gazed, 
When Troy's imperial domes in ruin blazed ; 
While he, severest sorrow doom'd to feel, 
Expired beneath the victor's murdering steel. 
Thus with his helpless partners till the last, 
Sad refuge ! Albert hugs the floating mast ; 
His soul could yet sustain the mortal blow, 
But droops, alas ! beneath superior woe : 
For now soft nature's sympathetic chain 
Tugs at his yearning heart with powerful strain , 
His faithful wife for ever doom'd to mourn 
For him, alas ! who never shall return ; 
To black adversity's approach exposed, 
With want and hardships unforeseen enclosed : 
His lovely daughter left without a friend, 
Her innocence to succor and defend ; 
By youth and indigence set forth a prey 
To lawless guilt, that flatters to betray — 
While these reflections rack his feeling mind, 
Rodmond, who hung beside, his grasp resign'd; 
And, as the tumbling waters o'er him roll'd, 
His out-stretch'd arms the master's legs enfold. — 
Sad Albert feels the dissolution near, 
And strives in vain his fetter'd limbs to clear ; 
For death bids every clinching joint adhere. 
All-faint, to heaven he throws his dying eyes, 
And, " protect my wife and child !" he cries : 
The gushing streams roll back th' unfinishd sound! 
He gasps ! he dies ! and tumbles to the ground I 

48 



566 TALBOT. [GEORGE III. 



CATHERINE TALBOT. 1720—1770. 

Catherine Talbot, the only daughter of Rev. Edward Talbot, Archdea- 
con of Berks, was born in the year 1720. She early exhibited strong marks 
of a feeling heart, a warm imagination, and a powerful understanding. To 
these natural talents were added all the advantages of a thorough education 
founded on Christian principles. In 1741 she was introduced to the cele 
brated Miss Elizabeth Carter, 1 with whom she maintained the most close and 
intimate friendship to the close of her life. At what age she began to write 
for the public eye, does not appear ; but it is certain that her talents and at 
tainments early introduced her into a valuable literary acquaintance, of which 
Archbishop Seeker, and Dr. Butler, the author of the " Analogy," may be 
named. But great as were her talents, and brilliant as her accomplishments, 
she possessed qualities of infinitely more importance both to herself and so- 
ciety. Her piety was deep and ardent : it was the spring of all her actions, 
as its rewards was the object of all her hopes. Her life, however, affords but 
little scope for narrative ; passing on in a smooth, equable tenor, without dan- 
gers or adventures. But she was not of a strong constitution, and the disease 
to which she had long been subject — a cancer — at length made rapid strides 
upon her delicate frame, and she expired on the 9th of January, 1770. 

The chief publications of Miss Talbot are, "Reflections on the Seven 
Days of the Week," which have passed through numerous editions, twenty- 
six "Essays," five "Dialogues," three "Prose Pastorals," a "Fairy Tale," 
three « Imitations of Ossian," two « Allegories," No. 30 of the " Rambler," 
and a few " Poems ;" all of which may be read with great profit, as the pro- 
duction of one who possessed the most exquisite qualities both of the head 
and heart. 2 

A SENSE OF GOD'S PRESENCE. 

Let me ask myself, as in the sight of God, what is the genera] 
turn of my temper, and disposition of my mind ? My most tri- 
fling words and actions are observed by Him : and every thought 
is naked to His eye. Could I suppose the king, or any the great- 
est person I have any knowledge of, were within reach of observ- 
ing my common daily behaviour, though unseen by me, should I 
not be very particularly careful to preserve it, in every respect, 
decent and becoming ? Should I allow myself in any little fro- 
ward humors ? Should I not be ashamed to appear peevish and 
ill-natured ? Should I use so much as one harsh or unhandsome 
expression even to my equal, or my meanest inferior, even were I 
ever so much provoked ? Much less should I behave irreverently 
to my parents or superiors. This awful Being, in whom I live 
and move, and from whom no obscurity can hide me, by whom 
the very hairs of my head are all numbered, He knows the obli- 
gations of every relation in life. He sees in their full light the 

1 This lady died in 1806, consequently beyond the period (1800) to which I have been obliged to 
restrict myself in the preparation of this work, in order to do any justice to our earner w ritcrs. 

2 Read— edition of her works, by Rev. M. Pennington ;— a notice of her life in Drake s Essays, 
vol v and some notices in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Censum Lileraria." 



1760-1820.] talbot. 567 

reciprocal duties of parents and children, of husbands and wives, 
of neighbors and fellow-servants. He knows the aggravated guilt 
of every offence against these ties of society, however we may be 
disposed to treat them as trifles : and every piece of stubbornness 
and pride, of ill-humour and passion, of anger and resentment, of 
sullenness and perverseness, exposes us to His just indignation. 

Reflections on Sunday. 
SELF-EXAMINATION. 

That I may be better in future, let me examine a little what 
temper I have been in the last twenty-four hours. In general, 
perhaps, I can recollect nothing much amiss in it : but let me 
descend to particulars. Things are often very faulty, that appear 
at first sight very trifling. Perhaps I have so fond a conceit of 
myself as to think that I can never be in the wrong. Has any 
uneasiness happened in the family this last day ? Perhaps 1 
think the fault was wholly in others, and the right entirely on my 
side. But ought I not to remember, that in all disputes, there is 
generally some fault on both sides ? Perhaps they begun : — but 
did not I carry it on? — They gave the provocation : — but did not 
I take it? — Am not I too apt to imagine that it would be mean 
entirely to let a quarrel drop, when I have a fair opportunity to 
reason, and argue, and reproach, to vindicate my injured merit, 
and assert my right ? Yet, is this agreeable to the precepts and 
example of Him, " who, when he was reviled, reviled not again ?" 
Is it agreeable to His commands, who has charged me, if my bro- 
ther trespass against me, to forgive him, not seven times only, but 
seventy times seven ? Is it agreeable to that Christian doctrine 
which exhorts us, not to think of ourselves highly, but soberly, 
as we ought to think : and that, in lowliness of mind, every one 
should think others better than himself ? And alas, how often do 
I think this disrespect, though a slight one, provoking to me ? 
This situation, though a happy one, not good enough for me? 
How often have I had in my mouth that wise maxim, that a worm, 
if it is trod upon, will turn again ! Wretch that I am, shall I 
plead the example of a vile worm of the earth for disobeying the 
commands of my Saviour, with whom I hope hereafter to sit in 
heavenly places ? 1 BeJkctiom on mnday . 

ALL CAN DO GOOD. 

Every one of us may in something or other assist or instruct 
some of his fellow-creatures : for the best of human race is poor 

1 It Is proper to observe that this excellent illustration of these unchristian passions, thougfi 
expressed in the first person, conveys no sort of idea of the mild and humble disposition of the 
writer hei self. 



568 TALBOT. [GEORGE .11. 

and needy, and all have a mutual dependence on one another : 
there is nobody that cannot do some good : and everybody is 
bound to do diligently all the good they can. It is by no means 
enough to be rightly disposed, to be serious, and religious in our 
closets : we must be useful too, and take care, that as we all reap 
numberless benefits from society, society may be the better for 
every one of us. It is a false, a faulty, and an indolent humility, 
that makes people sit still and do nothing, because they will not 
believe that they are capable of doing much : for everybody can 
do something. Everybody can set a good example, be it to many 
or to iew. Everybody can in some degree encourage virtue and 
religion, and discountenance vice and folly. Everybody has some 
one or other whom they can advise, or instruct, or in some way 
help to guide through life. Those who are too poor to give alms, 
can yet give their time, their trouble, their assistance in preparing 
or forwarding the gifts of others ; in considering and representing 
distressed cases to those who can relieve them ; in visiting and 
comforting the sick and afflicted. Everybody can offer up their 
prayers for those who need them : which, if they do reverently 
and sincerely, they will never be wanting in giving them every 
other assistance that it should please God to put in their power. 

Reflections on Thursday. 
IMPORTANCE OF TIME. 

Another week is past ; another of those little limited portions 
of time which number out my life. Let me stop a little here, 
before I enter upon a new one, and consider what this life is 
which is thus imperceptibly stealing away, and whither it is con- 
ducting me ? . What is its end and aim, its good and its evil, its 
use and improvement? What place does it fill in the universe? 
What proportion does it bear to eternity ? 

Let me think, then, and think deeply, how I have employed 
this week past. Have I advanced in, or deviated from the path 
that leads to life ? Has my time been improved or lost, or worse 
than lost, misspent ? If the last, let me use double diligence to 
redeem it. Have I spent a due portion of my time in acts of de- 
votion and piety, both private, public, and domestic ? And have 
they been sincere, and free from all mixture of superstition, mo- 
roseness, or weak scrupulosity ? Have I, in society, been kind 
and helpful, mild, peaceable, and obliging? Have I been charita- 
ble, friendly, discreet? Have I had a due regard, without vanity 
or ostentation, to set a good example ? Have I been equally ready 
to give and receive instruction, and proper advice ? Careful to 
give no offence, and patient to take every thing in good part? 
Have I been honest, upright, and disinterested? Have I, in my 
way, and according to my station and calling, been diligent, fru- 



1760-1820.] talbot. 569 

gal, generous, and industrious to do good ? Have I, in all my 
behavior, consulted the happiness and ease of those I live with, 
and of all who have any dependence upon me ? Have I pre- 
served my understanding clear, my temper calm, my spirits cheer- 
ful, my body temperate and healthy, and my heart in a right frame ? 
If to all these questions I can humbly, yet confidently answer, thai 
I have done my best : if I have truly repented all the faulty past, 
and made humble, yet firm, and vigorous, and deliberate resolu- 
tions for the future, poor as it is, the honest endeavor will be 
graciously accepted. 



Reflectiom on Saturday. 



IMPORTANCE OF EARLY RISING. 



Awake, my Laura, break the silken chain, 
Awake, my Friend, to hours unsoil'd by pain: 
Awake to peaceful joys and thought refined, 
Youth's cheerful morn, and Virtue's vigorous mind : 
Wake to all joys fair friendship can bestow, 
All that from health and prosperous fortune flow. 
Still dost thou sleep ? awake, imprudent fair ; 
Few hours has life, and few of those can spare. 

Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise 
"While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies: 
While yet the birds their early matins sing, 
And all around us blooming as the spring. 
Ere sultry Phoebus with his scorching ray 
Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay, 
Scorch'd every flower, embrown'd each drooping greeit, 
Pall'd the pure air, and chased the pleasing scene. 
Still dost thou sleep 1 O rise, imprudent fair ; 
Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare. 

Think of the task those hours have yet in view, 
Reason to arm, and passion to subdue ; 
While life's fair calm, and flattering moments last, 
To fence your mind against the stormy blast : 
Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store, 
Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore, 
And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. 
Imperfect beings ! weakly arm'd to bear 
Pleasure's soft wiles, or sorrow's open war ; 
Alternate shocks from different sides to feel, 
Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel : 
Not weakly arm'd, if ever on our guard, 
Nor to the worst unequal if prepared : 
Not ^insurmountable the task, if loved, 
Nor short the time, if every hour improved. 
O rouse thee then, nor shun the glorious strife,— 
Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life : 
Assert thy reason, animate thy heart, 
And act through life's short scene the useful part : 
Then sleep in peace, by gentlest memory crown'd, 
Till time's vast year has fill'd its perfect round. 
48* 



570 CHATTERTON. fGEORGE III. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1752—1770. 

Thomas Chatterton was the son of the master of a free-school in Bristol, 
and was born on the 20th of November, 1752. His father dying about three 
months before the birth of the son, the whole care of his education devolved 
upon the mother, who appears to have discharged her duty with great fidelity. 
At the age of eight, he was put to a charity-school at Bristol, where he soon 
discovered a great passion for books, and before he was twelve had perused 
about seventy volumes, chiefly on history and divinity, and written some 
verses which were wonderful for his years. At the age of fourteen he was 
bound apprentice to a Mr. Lambert, a scrivener in his native city, and he de- 
voted all his leisure time to acquiring a knowledge of English antiquities and 
obsolete language, as a sort of preparation for the wonderful fabrication he 
shortly after palmed upon the world. 

It was in the year 1768 that he first attracted public attention. On the oc- 
casion of the new bridge at Bristol being opened, there appeared in the Bristol 
Journal an article purporting to be the transcript of an ancient manuscript, 
entitled, " A Description of the Fryers first passing over the Old Bridge, taken 
from an Ancient Manuscript." This was traced to Chatterton, who said he 
had received the paper, together with many other ancient manuscripts, from 
his father, who had found them in an iron chest in the Redcliff church, near 
Bristol, and that they were written by Thomas Rowley, a priest of the fifteenth 
century. Having deceived many persons of some literary pretensions in 
Bristol, he wrote to Horace Walpole, in London, sending him some specimens 
of his Rowleian poetry, and requesting his patronage. The virtuoso, how- 
ever, having shown the poetical specimens to Gray and Mason, who pro- 
nounced them to be forgeries, sent the youth a cold reply, and advised him to 
stick to his professional business. 

In the mean time Chatterton commenced a correspondence with the Town 
and Country Magazine, to which he sent a number of communications relat- 
ing to English Antiquities ; and his situation in Mr. Lambert's office becoming 
every day more and more irksome to him, he solicited and obtained a release 
from his apprenticeship ; his master, it is said, being alarmed by the hints 
which Chatterton gave of his intention to destroy himself. 

In the month of April, 1770, Chatterton, then seventeen years old, arrived 
in London, with many of his ancient manuscripts, and some acknowledged 
original poems, and received from the booksellers several important literary 
engagements. He was filled with the highest hopes, and his letters to his 
mother and sister, which were always accompanied with presents, expressed 
the most joyous anticipations. But suddenly, for some causes that are not 
known, all his dreams of honor and wealth to be obtained from his literary 
labors vanished. His poverty soon became distressing — he suffered from 
actual want of food ; and — having no religious principles to sustain him — he 
took poison, and was found dead in his bed on the 25th of August, 1770. 

The chief of the poems of Chatterton, published under the name of Rowley, 
are the " Tragedy of Ella," the " Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin," « Ode to 
Ella," the "Battle of Hastings," "The Tournament," one or two "Dialogues," 
and a " Description of Canynge's Feast." l " In estimating the promises of 

1 "It will be asked, For what end or purpose did he contrive such an imposture t I answer, From 
lucrative views; or perhaps from the pleasure of deceiving the world, a motive which, in many minds, 
operates more powerfully than the hopes of gain. He probably promised to himself greater emolu 



17G0-1820.] CHATTERTON. 571 

his genius," says Campbell, " I would rather lean to the utmost enthusiasm 
of his admirers, than to the cold opinion of those, who are afraid of being 
blinded to the defects of the poems attributed to Rowley, by the veil of obso- 
lete phraseology which is thrown over them. If we look to the ballad of Sir 
Charles Bawdin,and translate it into modern English, we shall find its strength 
and interest to have no dependence on obsolete words. In the striking pas- 
sage of the martyr Bawdin standing erect in his car to rebuke Edward, who 
beheld him from the window, when 

' The tyrant's soul rush'd to his face,' 
and when he exclaimed, 

' Behold the man ! he speaks the truth, 
He's greater than a king ;' 

in these, and in all striking parts of the ballad, no effect is owing to mock 
antiquity, but to the simple and high conception of a great and just character, 
who 

' Summ'd the actions of the day, 
Each night before he slept.' 

What a moral portraiture from the hand of a boy ! The inequality of Chat- 
terton's various productions may be compared to the disproportions of the 
ungrown giant. His works had nothing of the definite neatness of that preco- 
cious talent which stops in early maturity. His thirst for knowledge was that 
of a being taught by instinct to lay up materials for the exercise of great and 
undeveloped powers. Even in his favorite maxim, pushed it might be to 
hyperbole, that a man by abstinence and perseverance might accomplish 
whatever he pleased, may be traced the indications of a genius which nature 
had meant to achieve works of immortality. Tasso alone can be compared 
to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet ever equalled him at the 
same age." 1 

DEATH OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 

The feather'd songster chanticleer 

Had wound his bugle-horn, 
And told the early villager 

The coming of the morn : 

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 

Of light eclipse the gray, 
And heard the raven's croaking throat, 

Proclaim the fated day. 

" Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for by the God 

That sits enthroned on high ! 
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, 

To-day shall surely die." 

merits from this indirect mode of exercising his abilities : or he might have sacrificed even the vanity 
of appearing in the character of an applauded original author, to the private enjoyment of the success 
of his invention and dexterity." — Warton. 

1 For papers on the authenticity of the Rowleian poems, read— Campbell's "Specimens," vi. 152— 
162; Warton's "History of English Poetry," vol. ii. section xxvi.; "An Essay on the Evidence, ex 
ternal and internal, relating to the Poems attributed to Thomas Kowley," by T. J.Mathias, and "The 
Life of Thomas Chatterton, with Criticisms on his Genius and Writings, and a Concise View of the 
Controversy concerning Rowley's Poems," by George Gregory, D. D. 



$72 CHATTERTON. [GEORGE III. 

Then with a jug of nappy aie 

His knights did on him wait ; 
" Go tell the traitor, that to-day 

He leaves this mortal state." 

Sir Canterlone then bended low, 

With heart brimful of wo; 
He journey'd to the castle-gate, 

And to Sir Charles did go. 

But when he came, his children twain, 

And eke his loving wife, 
With briny tears did wet the floor, 

For good Sir Charles's life. 

" Oh good Sir Charles !" said Canterlone, 

" Bad tidings I do bring." 
"Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles; 

" What says the traitor king ?" 

" I grieve to tell : before yon sun 

Does from the welkin fly, 
He hath upon his honor sworn, 

That thou shalt surely die." 

" We all must die," said brave Sir Charles ; 

" Of that I'm not afraid ; 
What boots to live a little space ? 

Thank Jesus, I'm prepared. 

B it tell thy king, for mine he's not, 

I'd sooner die to-day, 
T tan live his slave, as many are, 

Though I should live for aye. 

We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; 

" What boots it how or when ? 
Death is the sure, the certain fate, 

Of all we mortal men. 

Say why, my friend, thy honest soul 

Runs over at thine eye ; 
Is it for my most welcome doom 

That thou dost child-like cry?" 

Saith godly Canynge, " I do weep, 

That thou so soon must die, 
And leave thy sons and hapless wife ; 

'Tis this that wets mine eye." 

" Then dry the tears that out thine eye 

From godly fountains spring ; 
Death I despise, and all the power 

Of Edward, traitor king. 

When through the tyrant's welcome means 

I shall resign my life, 
The God I serve will soon provide 

For both my sons and wife. 



1760-1820.] CHATTERTON. 573 

In London city was I born, 

Of parents of great note ; 
My father did a noble arms 

Emblazon on his coat: 

I make no doubt but he is gone 

Where soon I hope to go, 
Where we for ever shall be blest, 

From out the reach of woe. 

He taught me justice and the laws 

With pity to unite ; 
And eke he taught me how to know 

The wrong cause from the right : 

He taught me with a prudent hand 

To feed the hungry poor, 
Nor let my servants drive away 

The hungry from my door : 

And none can say but all my life 

I have his wordis kept ; 
And summ'd the actions of the day 

Each night before I slept 

What though I on a sled be drawn, 

And mangled by a hind, 
I do defy the traitor's power, 

He cannot harm my mind: 

What though, uphoisted on a pole, 

My limbs shall rot in air, 
And no rich monument of brass 

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 

Yet in the holy book above, 

Which time can't eat away, 
There, with the servants of the Lord, 

My name shall live for aye. 

Then, welcome death! for life eterne 

I leave this mortal life : 
Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, 

My sons and loving wife ! 

Now death as welcome to me comes 

As e'er the month of May; 
Nor would I even wish to live, 

With my dear wife to stay." 

Saith Canynge, " 'Tis a goodly thing 

To be prepared to die ; 
And from this world of pain and grief 

To God in heaven to fly." 

And now the bell began to toll, 

And clarions to sound ; 
Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 

A-prancing on the ground. 



611 CHATTERTON. [GEORGE in. 

And just before the officers 

His loving wife came in, 
Weeping unfeigned tears of wo 

With loud and dismal din. 

" Sweet Florence ! now I pray forbear, 

In quiet let me die 5 
Pray God that every Christian soul 

May look on death as I. 

Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? 

They wash my soul away, 
And almost make me wish for life, 

With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 

'Tis but a journey I shall go 

Unto the land of bliss ; 
Now, as a proof of husband's love, 

Receive this holy kiss." 

Then Florence, faltering in her say, 

Trembling these wordis spoke : 
u Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! 

My heart is wellnigh broke. 

Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go 

Without thy loving wife ? 
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, 

It eke shall end my life." 

And now the officers came in 

To bring Sir Charles away, 
Who turned to his loving wife, 

And thus to her did say: 

K I go to life, and not to death ; 

Trust thou in God above, 
And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, 

And in their hearts him love. 

Teach them to run the noble race 

That I their father run, 
Florence ! should death thee take — adieu 

Ye officers, lead on." 

Then Florence raved as any mad, 

And did her tresses tear ; 
*' Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life !"— 

Sir Charles then dropp'd a tear. 

Till tired out with raving loud, 

She fell upon tire floor ; 
Sir Charles exerted all his might, 

And march'd from out the door. 

Upon a sled he mounted then, 

With looks full brave and sweet • 
Looks that enshone no more concern 

Than any in the street 



176G-1820.J CHATTERTON. 575 

Before him went the council-men, 

In scarlet robes and gold, 
And tassels spangling in the sun, 

Much glorious to behold. 

Then five-and-twenty archers came ; 

Each one the bow did bend, 
From rescue of King Henry's friends 

Sir Charles for to defend. 

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 

Drawn on a cloth-laid sled, 
By two black steeds in trappings white, 

With plumes upon their head. 

Behind him five-and-twenty more 

Of archers strong and stout, 
With bended bow each one in hand, 

Marched in goodly rout. 

And after them a multitude 

Of citizens did throng ; 
The windows were all full of heads, 

As he did pass along. 

And when he came to the high cross, 

Sir Charles did turn and say, 
" Thou that savest man from sin, 

Wash my soul clean this day." 

At the great minster window sat 

The king in inickle state, 
To see Charles Bawdin go along 

To his most welcome fate. 

Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, 

That Edward he might hear, 
The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, 

And thus his words declare : 

u Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile ! 

Exposed to infamy ; 
But be assured, disloyal man, 

I'm greater now than thee. 

By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 

Thou wearest now a crown ; 
And hast appointed me to die 

By power not thine own. 

Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; 

I have been dead till now, 
And soon shall live to wear a crown 

For aye upon my brow ; 

Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, 

Shalt rule this fickle land, 
T ) let them know how wide the rule 

'Twixt king and tyrant hand. 



57® CHATTERTON. [GEORGE 17 C 



Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! 

Shall fall on thy own head" — 
From out of hearing of the king 

Departed then the sled. 

King Edward's soul rush'd to his face, 

He turn'd his head away, 
And to his brother Gloucester 

He thus did speak and say : 

" To him, that so-much-dreaded death 

No ghastly terrors bring ; 
Behold the man ! he spake the truth ; 

He's greater than a king !" 

" So let him die !" Duke Richard said 
" And may each one our foes 

Bend down their necks to bloody axe, 
And feed the carrion crows." 

And now the horses gently drew 
Sir Charles up the high hill ; 

The axe did glister in the sun, 
His precious blood to spill. 

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, 

As up a gilded car 
Of victory, by valorous chiefs 

Gain'd in the bloody war. 

And to the people he did say: 

" Behold you see me die, 
For serving loyally my king, 

My king most rightfully. 

As long as Edward rules this land, 

No quiet you will know ; 
Your sons and husbands shall be slaiti, 

And brooks with blood shall flow. 

You leave your good and lawful king, 

When in adversity ; 
Like me, unto the true cause stick, 

And for the true cause die." 

Then he, with priests, upon his knees, 
A prayer to God did make, 

Beseeching him unto himself 
His parting soul to take. 

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head 

Most seemly on the block ; 
Which from his body fair at once 

The able headsman stroke : 

And out the blood began to flow, 
And round the scaffold twine ; 

And tears, enough to washt away, 
Did flow from each man's eyne. 



1760-1820.] CH4TTERT0N. £77 

The bloody axe his body fair 

Into four partis cut ; 
And every part, and eke his head, 

Upon a pole was put. 
One part did rot on Einwulph-hill, 

One on the minster-tower, 
And one from off the castle-gate 

The crowen did devour. 
The other on Saint Paul's good gate, 

A dreary spectacle ; 
His head was placed on the high cross, 

In high street most noble. 
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : 

God prosper long our king, 
And grant he may, with Bawdin's sou\ 

In heaven God's mercy sing ! 

RESIGNATION. 

God, whose thunder shakes the sky, 

Whose eye this atom globe surveys ; 
To Thee, my only rock, I fly, 

Thy mercy in thy justice praise. 

The mystic mazes of thy will, 

The shadows of celestial light, 
Are past the power of human skill — 

But what the Eternal acts is right. 

O teach me in the trying hour, 

When anguish swells the dewy tear, 
To still my sorrows, own thy power, 

Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but Thee 

Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 
Omniscience could the danger see, 

And Mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ? 

Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 
Shake off the melancholy chain, 

For God created all to bless. 

But ah ! my breast is human still — 

The rising sigh, the falling tear, 
My languid vitals' feeble rill, 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, with fortitude resign'd, 

I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow ; 
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 

Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night, 

Which on my sinking spirits steals, 
Will vanish at the morning light, 

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. 
2 49 



57 1 AKENSIDE. [GEORGE III. 



MARK AKENSIDE. 1721—1770. 

Few English poets of the eighteenth century are to be ranked before the 
author of " The Pleasures of the Imagination." He was born on the 9th of 
November, 1721, at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and was educated at the University 
of Edinburgh. His parents designed him for the ministry, but as his educa- 
tion progressed, other views governed him, and he devoted himself to the 
Study of medicine as his future profession. After remaining three years at 
die Scottish capital, he went to Leyden, where he also studied three years, 
and took his degree of M. D. in 1744. Returning home the same year, he 
published his poem, « The Pleasures of the Imagination." On offering the copy 
to Dodsley, he demanded d£l20 for the manuscript, but the wary publisher 
hesitated at paying such a price for the work of an unknown youth of twenty- 
three. He therefore showed the work to Pope, when the latter, having 
glanced over a few pages, said, " Don't be niggardly about the terms, for this 
is no every-day writer." 

No sooner was it published than it excited great attention, and received 
general applause. But he could not reap from it " the means whereby to 
live," and he betook himself to the practice of his profession. He first settled 
in Northampton ; but finding little encouragement there, he removed to Hamp-f 
stead, and thence finally to London. Here he experienced the difficulty of 
getting into notice in a large city, and though he acquired several professional 
honors, he never obtained any large share of practice. He was busy in pre- 
senting himself to public notice, by publishing medical essays and observa- 
tions, and delivering lectures, when his career was terminated by a putrid 
fever, on the 23d of January, 1770. 

The Pleasures of the Imagination is written in blank verse, with great 
beauty of versification, elegance of language, and splendor of imagery. Its 
object is to trace the various pleasures which we receive from nature and art 
to their respective principles in the human imagination, and to show the con- 
nection of those principles with the moral dignity of man, and the final pur- 
poses of his creation. 1 This task Akenside has executed in a most admirable 
manner. If his philosophy be not always correct, his general ideas of moral 
truth are lofty and prepossessing. He is peculiarly eloquent in those passages 
in which he describes the final causes of our emotions of taste ; he is equally 
skilful in delineating the processes of memory and association ; and he gives 
an animating -view of Genius collecting her stores for works of excellence. 
Of this poem Dr. Johnson remarks, « It has undoubtedly a just claim to a very 
particular notice, as an example of great felicity of genius and uncommon 
amplitude of acquisitions, of a young mind stored with images, and much 
exercised in combining and comparing them. The subject is well chosen, as 
it includes all images that can strike or please, and thus comprises every 
species of poetical delight." He complains, however, with equal justice, of 
the poet's amplitude of language, in which his meaning is frequently ob- 
scured, and sometimes whc/Jy buried. 

In maturer life Akenside intended to revise and alter the whole poem, but 
he died before he had completed his design. The portion that he did « im- 
prove" is contracted in some parts and expanded in others ; but if it be more 
philosophically correct, it is shorn of much of its beauty and poetic fire ; and 

I Campbell's Specimens, vol. vi. p. 128. 



1760-1820.] akenside. 579 

the original inspiration, under which he had written the work, does not ap- 
pear to have been ready at his call. 1 

INTRODUCTION. THE SUBJECT PROPOSED 

With what attractive charms this goodly frame 
Of nature touches the consenting hearts 
Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores 
Which beauteous imitation thence derives 
To deck the poet's or the painter's toil ; 
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers 
Of musical delight ! and while I sing 
Your gifts, your honors, dance around my strain. 
Thou smiling queen of every tuneful breast, 
Indulgent Fancy ! from the fruitful banks 
Of Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull 
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf 
Where Shakspeare lies, be present : and with thee 
Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings, 
Wafting ten thousand colors through the air, 
Which, by the glances of her magic eye, 
She blends and shifts at will, through countless forms, 
Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre, 
Which rules the accents of the moving sphere, 
Wilt thou, eternal Harmony ! descend, 
And join this festive train? for with thee comes 
The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, 
Majestic Truth ; and where Truth deigns to come 
Her sister Liberty will not be far. 
Be present, all ye genii, who conduct 
The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, 
New to your springs and shades : who touch his ear 
With finer sounds : who heighten to his eye 
The bloom of nature ; and before him turn 
The gayest, happiest attitude of things. 

Oft have the laws of each poetic strain 
The critic- verse employ 'd ; yet still unsung 
Lay this prime subject, though importing most 
A poet's name : for fruitless is th' attempt, 
By dull obedience and by creeping toil, 
Obscure, to conquer the severe ascent 
Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath 
Must fire the chosen genius ; nature's hand- 
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle- wings, 
Impatient of the painful steep, to soar 
High as the summit ; there to breathe at large 
Ethereal air ; with bards and sages old, 
Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes, 
To this neglected labor court my song: 
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task 
To paint the finest features of the mind, 
And to most subtle and mysterious things 
Give color, strength, and motion. But the love 

1 Read— Mrs. Barbauld's elegant Essay, prefixed to an edition of his poem, published in 1796; at 
winch she characterizes his genius as lofty and elegant, chaste, classical, ana correct. 



5«0 AKENSIDB. [GEORGB til. 

Of nature and the muses bids explore, 
Through secret paths erewhile untrod by man, 
The fair poetic region, to detect 
Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, 
And shade my temples with unfading flowers 
Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess, 
Where never poet gain'd a wreath before. 

But not alike to every mortal eye 
Is this great scene unveil'd. For since the claims 
Of social life to different labors urge 
The active powers of man ; with wise intent 
The hand of nature on peculiar minds 
Imprints a different bias, and to each 
Decrees its province in the common toil. 
To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, 
The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, 
The golden zones of heaven ; to some she gave 
To weigh the moment of eternal tilings, 
Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain, 
And will's quick impulse : others by the hand 
She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore 
What healing virtue swells the tender veins 
Of herbs and flowers ; or what the beams of morn 
Draw forth, distilling from the clefted rind 
In balmy tears. But some to higher hopes 
Were destined ; some within a finer mould 
She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame. 
To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds 
The world's harmonious volume, there to read 
The transcript of himself. On every part 
They trace the bright impressions of his hand : 
In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores, 
The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form 
Blooming with rosy smiles, they see portrayd 
That uncreated beauty, which delights 
The mind supreme. They also feel her charms, 
Enamour'd ; they partake th' eternal joy. 

man's immortal aspirations. 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 
Amid the vast creation ; why ordain'd 
Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, 
With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame ; 
But that th' Omnipotent might send him forth 
In sight of mortal and immortal powers, 
As on a boundless theatre, to run 
The great career of justice ; to exalt 
His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 
To chase each partial purpose from his breast, 
And through the mists of passion and of sense, 
And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, 
To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice 
Of truth and virtue, up the steep ascent 
Of nature, calls him to his high reward, 
Th' applauding smile of heaven? Else wherefore burns 



1760-1820.] AKENSIDE. 581 

In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, 
That breathes from day to day sublimer things, 
And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind, 
With such resistless ardor, to embrace 
Majestic forms ; impatient to be free ; 
Spurning the gross control of wilful might ; 
Proud of the strong contention of her toils ; 
Proud to be daring ? Who but rather turns 
To heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, 
Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame ? 
Who that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye 
Shoots round the wild horizon, to survey 
Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave 

Through^mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, 
And continents of sand ; will turn his gaze 
To mark the windings of a scanty rill 
That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul 
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
Through fields of air ; pursues the flying storm ; 
Rides on the volley'd lightning through the heavens ; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, 
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars 
The blue profound, and hovering round the sun, 
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
Of light ; beholds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
The fated rounds of time. Thence far effused, 
She darts her swiftness up the long career 
Of devious comets ; through its burning signs 
Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
Of nature, and looks back on all the stars, 
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, 
Invests the orient. Now amazed she views 
Th' empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode ; 
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light 
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, 
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. 
E'en on the barriers of the world untired 
She meditates th' eternal depth below ; 
Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges ; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up 
In that immense of being. There her hopes 
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, 
That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
Not in the fading echoes of renown, 
Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, 
The soul should find enjoyment : but from these 
Turning disdainful to an equal good, 
Through all th' ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And infinite perfection close the scene. 
49* 



582 AKENSIDE. [GEORGE III. 

CAUSE OF OUR PLEASURE IN BEAUTY. 

Then tell me, for ye know, 
Does beauty ever deign to dwell where health 
And active use are strangers ? Is her charm 
Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends 
Are lame and fruitless ? Or did nature mean 
This pleasing call the herald of a he ; 
To hide the shame of discord and disease, 
And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart 
Of idle faith 1 O no : with better cares 
Th' indulgent mother, conscious how infirm 
Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, 
By this illustrious image, in each kind 
Still most illustrious where the object holds 
Its native powers most perfect, she by this 
Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire, 
And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe, 
Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract 
Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul, 
The bloom of* nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, 
And every charm of animated things, 
Are only pledges of a state sincere, 
Th' integrity and order of their frame, 
When all is well witiiin, and every end 
Accomplish'd. Thus was beauty sent from heaven, 
The lovely ministress of truth and good 
In this dark world : for truth and good are one, 
And beauty dwells in them, and they in her, 
With like participation. Wherefore, then, 
O sons of earth ! would ye dissolve the tie ? 
wherefore, with a rash, impetuous aim, 
Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand 
Of lavish fancy paints each flattering scene 
Where beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire 
Where is the sanction of eternal truth, 
Or where the seal of undeceitful good, 
To save your search from folly ! Wanting these, 
Lo ! beauty withers in your void embrace, 
And with the glittering of an idiot's toy 
Did fancy mock your vows. 

THE SUPERIORITY OF MORAL OVER NATURAL BEAUTY. 1 

Thus doth beauty dwell 
There most conspicuous, e'en in outward shape, 
Where dawns the high expression of a mind : 
By steps conducting our enraptured search 

1 Our poet is exceedingly infelicitous in giving, as an illustration of this fine subject, the historical 
(act of the assassination of Julius Caesar by Brutus and the rest of the conspirators. In a moral 
point of \iew, it was an atrocious murder, utterly unjustifiable : and in a political point of view, it 
was highly inexpedient For however unscrupulous Caesar was in his means to attain power; 
when obtained, few men have used it with more wisdom or clemency. In every great quality how 
superior was he to the hollow-hearted, selfish Augustus I The former, for instance, spared Cicero, 
his enemy, and the main stay of the party of Pompey ; the latter sacrificed him, though professedly 
a friend, to the vengeance of Antony. 



1760-1820.] akenside. 583 

To that eternal origin, whose power, 

Through all th' unbounded symmetry of things, 

Like rays effulging from the parent sun, 

This endless mixture of her charms diffused. 

Mind, mind alone, (bear witness, earth and hearen!) 

The living fountains in itself contains 

Of beauteous and sublime : here, hand in hand, 

Sit paramount the graces ; here enthroned, 

Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then abroad through nature, to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling unshaken through the void immense ; 

And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 

The strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots 5 and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, 

And bade the father of his country hail 1 

For lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 

And Rome again is free ! 



TASTE. 

What then is taste, but these internal powers 
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive 
To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense 
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust 
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross 
In species 1 This, nor gems, nor stores of gold, 
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow ; 
But God alone, when first his active hand 
Imprints the secret bias of the soul. 
He, mighty Parent ! wise and just in all, 
Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven, 
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain 
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's 
Long labor, why, forgetful of his toils 
And due repose, he loiters to behold 
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, 
O ex all the western sky ; full soon, I ween, 
His rude expression and untutor'd airs, 
Beyond the power of language, will unfold 
The form of beauty smiling at his heart, 
How lovely ! how commanding ! But though Heaven 
In every breast hath sown these early seeds 
Of Love and admiration, yet in vain, 
Without fair culture's kind parental aid, 
Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, 
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope 
The tender plant should rear its blooming head. 
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. 



584 AKENSIDE. [GEORGE m. 

Nor yet 'will every soil with equal stores 

Repay the tiller's labor : or attend 

His will, obsequious, whether to produce 

The olive or the laurel. Different minds 

Incline to different objects : one pursues 

The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ; 

Another sighs for harmony and grace, 

And gentlest beauty. Hence, when Hghtning fires 

The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, 

When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, 

And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, 

Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky ; 

Amid the mighty uproar, while below 

The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad 

From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys 

The elemental war. But Waller longs, 

All on the margin of some flowery stream, 

To spread his careless limbs amid the cool 

Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer 

The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain 

Resound soft-warbling all the livelong day : 

Consenting zephyr sighs ; the weeping rill 

Joins in his plaint, melodious ; mute the groves ; 

And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. 

Such and so various are the tastes of men. 



CONCLUSION. 

O ! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs 
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 
Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave 
Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store 
Of nature, fair imagination culls 
To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What though not all 
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights 
Of envied life ; though only few possess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state ; 
Yet nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures and an ampler state, 
Endows, at large, whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, 
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns 
The princely dome, the column and the arch, 
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand 
Of Autumn unges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings j 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 



1760-1820.] gray. 585 

The setting sun ; s effulgence, not a strain 

From all the tenants of the warbling shade 

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 

Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes 

Fresh pleasure only : for th' attentive mind, 

By this harmonious action on her powers, 

Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 

In outward things to meditate the charm 

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 

To find a kindred order to exert 

Within herself this elegance of love, 

This fair inspired delight : her temper'd powers 

Refine at length, and every passion wears 

A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 

But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze 

On nature's form, where, negligent of all 

These lesser graces, she assumes the port 

Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd 

The world's foundations ; if to these the mind 

Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far 

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms 

Of servile custom cramp her generous powers 1 

Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth 

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down 

To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear 1 

Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds 

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, 

The elements and seasons : all declare 

For what th' eternal Maker has ordain'd 

The powers of man : we feel within ourselves 

His energy divine : he tells the heart, 

He meant, he made us to behold and love 

What he beholds and loves, the general orb 

Of life and being ; to be great like him, 

Beneficent and active. Thus the men 

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself 

Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, 

With his conceptions, act upon his plan; 

And form to his the relish of their souls 



THOMAS GRAY. 1716—1771. 



This most eminent poet and distinguished scholar was born in London m 
1716. After receiving the first portion of his classical education at Evon, he 
entered the University of Cambridge, where he continued five years ; after 
which he travelled, as companion with Horace Walpole, through France and 
part of Italy. At Reggio, however, these ill-assorted friends parted in mutual 
dislike, and Gray proceeded alone to Venice, and there remained only till he 
was provided with the means of returning to England. As to the cause of 
the separation, Walpole was afterwards content to bear the blame. " Gray," said 
he, " was too serious a companion for me : he was for antiq lities, &c, while 
X was for perpetual balls and plays ; the fault was mine," 



586 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

Two months after his return to England, his father died, in embarrassed 
circumstances, and Gray returned to Cambridge, where he prosecuted his 
studies, with an ardor and industry seldom equalled, to the end of his life. 
In 1742 he produced his "Ode to Spring," and in the autumn of the same 
year he wrote the " Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and the 
"Hymn to Adversity;" but he did not publish them till some years after. 
They were circulated among his friends, who were, of course, delighted with 
them, and they received from their gifted author touches and re-touches, till 
they were brought to the perfection in which we now have them. So slow 
was he in poetical composition, that his next ode, " On the Death of a favorite 
Cat," was not written till 1747. In 1750 appeared his most celebrated poem, 
the « Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." Few poems were ever so 
popular. It soon ran through eleven editions, and has ever since been one 
of those few, favorite pieces that every one has by heart. 

In 1757 the office of poet-laureate, made vacant by the death of Cibber, 
was offered to Gray, but declined. The same year he published his two odes 
on " The Progress of Poesy," and « The Bard." Though they showed to a 
still higher degree the power and the genius of the poet, and were felt to be 
magnificent productions, they were not so popular, because they were less 
understood. 1 In 1768, the Professorship of History at Cambridge becoming 
vacant, it was conferred upon our poet, than whom a person of greater and 
more extensive scholarship could not be found at that time in England. But 
his habitual indolence in writing unfitted him for the office; for though he 
retained it till his death, he delivered no lectures. In the spring of 1770 illness 
overtook him, as he was projecting a tour in Wales ; but recovering, he was 
able to effect the tour in the autumn. But the next year, 1771, on the 24th of 
July, he was seized with an attack of gout in the stomach, from which, as an 
hereditary complaint, he had long suffered ; and died on the 30th of the same 
month, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. 

The life of Gray is one singularly devoid of interest and variety, even for 
an author. It is the life of a student giving himself up to learning, account- 
ing it as an end itself, and "its own exceeding great reward," He devoted 
his time almost exclusively to reading : writing was with him an exception, and 
that, too, a rare one. His life was spent in the acquisition of knowledge. At 
the time of his death, " he was perhaps the most learned man in Europe. 
He was equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of science 
and that not superficially, but thoroughly. He knew every branch of history, 
both natural and civil ; had read all the original historians of England, France, 
and Italy ; and was a great antiquary. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, poli- 
tics, made a principal part of his plan of study ; voyages and travels of all 
sorts were his favorite amusement : and he had a fine taste in painting, prints, 
architecture, and gardening." 2 

As a poet, though we cannot assent to the enthusiastic encomium of his 
ardent admirer and biographer, Mr. Matthias, 3 that he is "second to none," 

1 He himself prefixed to them a quotation from Pindar, (puivavra arvvsToia-iv, " vocal to the intelli- 
gent alone." 

2 From a sketch of his life by the Rev. William Temple. "I am sorry," says the excellent Dr. 
Bep.ttie, in writing to a friend, " you did not see Mr. Gray on his return : you would have been 
much pleased with him. Setting aside his merit as a poet, which, however, in my opinion, is greater 
tl:an any of his contemporaries can boast, in this or any other nation, I found him possessed of the 
most exact taste, the soundest judgment, and most extensive learning." 

Works, by T J. Matthias, 2 vols, quarto; the best edition. 



1760-1820.] gray. 587 

yet, after naming Milton, and Shakspeare, and Spenser, and Chaucer, if we 
were compelled to assign the fifth place to some one, we know not to whorr 
it would be, if not to Thomas Gray. There are in the poems that he has left 
us, few though they be, such a perfect finish of language, such felicity of ex- 
pression, such richness and harmony of numbers, and such beauty and sub- 
limity of thought and imagination, as to place him decidedly at the head of 
all English lyric poets. True, Collins comes next, and sometimes approaches 
him almost within a hair's-breadth : but after all there is distance between 
them, and that distance is generally clearly perceptible. Of the " Bard" and 
" The Progress of Poesy," Mr. Matthias justly observes, « There is not another 
ode in the English language which is constructed likemese two compositions; 
with such power, such majesty, and such sweetness, with such proportioned 
pauses and just cadences, with such regulated measures of the verse, with 
such master principles of lyrical art displayed and exemplified, and, at the 
same time, with such a concealment of the difficulty, which is lost in the soft- 
ness and uninterrupted flowing of the lines in each stanza, with such a musical 
magic, that every verse in it in succession dwells on the ear, and harmonizes 
with that which has gone before." 

As a man, he had great benevolence of feeling, the strictest principles of 
virtue, and the most unbending integrity. 1 As an instance of the strictness of 
his principles, he once made it his particular request to a friend who was 
going to the continent, that he would not pay a visit to Voltaire; and when 
his friend replied, " What can a visit from a person like me to him signify ?" 
he rejoined, with peculiar earnestness, « Sir, every tribute to such a man signi- 
fies." If such sentiments were more generally felt and acted on, men of 
elevated positions would not so often presume upon their talents, or eloquence, 
or learning, as being a sufficient covering for their moral deficiencies. 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 

I. 1. 

Awake, iEolian lyre, awake, 2 
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. 
From Helicon's harmonious springs 3 

A thousand rills their mazy progress take : 
The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 
Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 

1 «' His faculties were endowed with uncommon strength ; he thought with a manly nervousness ; 
and he penetrated forcibly into every subject which engaged his attention. But his petty manners 
were disagreeably effeminate and fastidious ; his habits wanted courage and hardiness ; and his tem- 
per and spirits were a prey to feebleness, Indolence, and trivial derangements. His heart was pure; 
■and his conduct, I firmly believe, stained with no crime. He loved virtue for its own sake, and felt 
a just and never slackened indignation at vice."— Sir Egerton Brydges, " Censnra Literaria," viii. 217. 
Read, also, a well-sustained and most interesting dialogue between Gray and Walpole in the same 
author's " Imaginative Biography." Bead, also, Drake's " Literary Hours," 3 vols.— a most fascinat- 
ing work. 

2 Awake up, my glory; awake, psaltery and harp.— Psalm lvii. 8. 

8 The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are united. The various sources of poetry, which 
gives life and lustre to all it touches, are here described ; its quiet majestic progress enriching every 
subject (otherwise dry and barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers ; ana 
Its more rapid and irresistible course, when swollen and hurried awav by the conflict of tumultuous 
passions. 



588 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

Now the rich stream of music winds along, 

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 

Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign : 

Now rolling down the steep amain 

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : 

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. 

I. 2. 

Oh ! Sovereign of the willing soul, 1 
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, 
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War 
Has curb'd the fury of his car, 
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. 
Perching on the sceptred hand 
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king 
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing : 
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber he 
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. 

I. 3. 

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 2 
Temper'd to thy warbled lay. 
O'er Idalia's velvet green 
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
On Cytherea's day; 

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
Now pursuing, now retreating, 

Now in circling troops they meet : 
To brisk notes in cadence beating, 

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare : 

Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. 
With arms sublime, that float upon the air, 

In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. 

II. 1. 

Man's feeble race, what ills await, 3 
Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, 

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate ! 
The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse ? 
Night, and all her sickly dews, 

1 Power of narmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the 
first Pythian of Pindar. 

2 Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body. 

•i To compensate <ne real and imaginary ills of life, the Muse was given to mankind by the same 
Providence that sends the day, by its cheerful presence, to dispel the gloom and terrors of the night. 



1760-4820.] gray. • 58£ 

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 

He gives to range the dreary sky ; 

Till down the eastern cliffs afar 1 

Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. 

II. 2. 

In climes beyond the solar road, 2 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, 
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom 

To cheer the shivering Native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 
In loose numbers wildly sweet, 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and generous shame, 
Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 

II. 3. 

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 3 
Isles, that crown th' JEgean deep, 

Fields that cool Ilissus laves, 

Or where Mseander's amber waves • 
In lingering labyrinths creep, 

How do your tuneful echoes languish 

Mute, but to the voice of anguish ? 
Where each old poetic mountain 

Inspiration breath'd around ; 
Every shade and hallow'd fountain 

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : 
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, 

Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains. 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power 

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
They sought, oh Albion ! next thy sea-encircled coast. 

III. 1. 

Far from the sun and summer-gale, 
In thy green lap was Nature's 4 Darling laid, 
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face : The dauntless child 
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 
" This pencil take," she said, "whose colors clear 
Richly paint the vernal year : 

1 Or seen the morning's well-appointed star 

Come marching up the eastern hills afar. — Cowley. 
2 Extensive Influence of poetic genius over the remotest and most uncivilized nations : its connec- 
tion with liberty, and the virtues that naturally attend on it. 

8 Progress of Poetry from Greece to Italy, and from Italy to England. Chaucer was not unac- 
quainted with the writings of Dante, or of Petrarch. The Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
had travelled in Italy, and formed their taste there ; Spenser imitated the Italian writers ; Milton 
improved on them; but this school expired soon after the Restoration, and a new one arose on the 
French model, which has subsisted ever since. 4 Shakspeare 

50 



590 * GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy ! 

This can unlock the gates of joy ; 

Of horror that, and thrilling fears, 

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." 

III. 2. 

Nor second He, 1 that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph- wings of Ecstasy, 
The secrets of th' abyss to spy. 

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : 
The living Throne, 2 the sapphire-blaze, 
Where angels tremble while they gaze, 

He saw : but, blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, 
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race, 3 
With necks in thunder clothed, 4 and long-resounding pac6. 

III. 3. 

Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 5 
But ah ! 'tis heard no more — 

Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring spirit 

Wakes thee now ? Though he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban eagle bear, 6 
Sailing with supreme dominion 

Through the azure deep of air: 
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 

Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray 
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun : 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great 

THE BARD. 7 
I. 1. 

" Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! 8 
Confusion on thy banners wait ! 



1 Milton. 

2 " For the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels — and above the firmament, that was over 
their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a sapphire-stone.— This was tne ap- 
pearance of the glory of the Lord."— Ezekiel i. 20, 26, 28. 

8 Meant to express the stately march and sounding energy of Dryden's rhymes. 
* - Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ?"— Job. 
b " Words that weep, and tears that speak."— Cowley. 

6 Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ravens that c~oak and clamor in vain 
below, while it pursues its flight, regardless of their noise. 

7 This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed 
the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. 

"Over this inimitable ode a tinge so wildly awful, so gloomily terrific, is thrown, as without any 
exception to place it at the head of lyric poetry." — Drake's Literary Hours. 

8 " This abrupt execration plunges the reader into that sudden, fearful perplexity w 



1760-1820.] gray. 591 

Though fann'd by Conquest's 'crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state. 

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 1 

Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !" 
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 2 

He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 3 
" To arms !" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance* 

1. 2. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 5 

Frowns oer old Conway's foaming flood, 
Robed in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 6 
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air ; 7 ) 
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
u Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 

Sighs to the torrents awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, oh King ! their hundred arms they wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay." 8 



lc predominate through the whole. The Irresistible violence of the prophet s passions bears him 
nway, who, as he is unprepared by a formal ushering in of the speaker, is unfortified against the im- 
pressions of his poetical frenzy, and overpowered by them, as sudden thunders strike the deepest. 
All readers of taste, I fancy, have felt this effect from the passage; they will be pleased, however, to 
see their own feelings so well expressed as they are, in this note." — Mason. 

1 The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that 
sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. 

2 Snowdon was a name given by the Saxons to that mountainous tract which the Welsh themselves 
call Craigian-eryrie : it included all the highlands of Caernarvonshire and Merionethshire, as far east 
as the river Conway. 

3 Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edwaj d. 

4 Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They both were Lords Marchers, whose lands lay ou 
the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king in this expedition. 

5 " The turbulent impetuosity of the preceding stanza, and the sedate majesty of this, form a most 
pleasing and animated contrast."— Wakefield. 

6 The image was taken from a well-known picture of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being in 
the vision of Ezekiel : there are two of these paintings, both believed to be originals ; one at Flo- 
rence, the other in the Duke of Orleans' collection at Paris. 

7 " Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurl'd 
The imperial ensign, which full high advanced, 
Shone, like a meteor, streaming to the wind." 

Faradvie Lost, i. 535. 

8 "Hoel," observes Mr. Mitford, "is called high-born, as being the son or Owen Gwynedd, prince 
of North Wales." Llewellyn's poetry, we are told, was characterized by his countrymen as a soft 
lay, and I he Bard is himself styled the tender-hearted prince. 

Dr. Evms mentions Cadmaiio and Vrien among those bards of whom no works remain. 



592 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

I. '3. 

w Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 

That hush'd the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head." 
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 2 

Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: 

Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; 
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 3 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. 4 They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
I see them sit ; they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line." 

II. 1. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof; 5 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 

Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, 6 
Shrieks of an agonizing King ! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,' 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 8 
The scourge of Heaven ! What terrors round him wait ! 

1 " The cloud-capt towers."— Shakspeare. 

2 The shores of Caernarvonshire, opposite to the Isle of Anglesey. 

8 Camden and others observe, that eagles used annually to build their aerie among the rocks of 
Snowdon, which from thence (as some think) were named by the "Welsh Craigian-eryrie, or the Crags 
of the Eagles. At this day the highest point of Snowdon is called the Eagle's Nest. 

4 " Here," says an anonymous critic, " a vision of triumphant revenge is judiciously made to ensue, 
after the pathetic lamentation which precedes it. Breaks — double rhymes— an appropriated cadence 
—and an exalted ferocity of language, forcibly picture to us the uncontrollable tumultuous workings 
of the prophet's stimulated bosom." — Mason. 

5 "Can there be an image more just, apposite, and nobly imagined, than this tremendous tragical 
winding-sheet? In the rest of this stanza the wildness of thought, expression, and cadence, are ad- 
mirably adapted to, the character and situation of the speaker, and of the bloody spectres, his assist- 
ants. It is not indeed peculiar to it alone, but a beauty that runs throughout the whole composition, 
that tie historical events are briefly sketched out by a few striking circumstances, in which the Poet's 
office of rather exciting and directing, than satisfying the reader's imagination, is perfectly observed. 
Such abrupt hints, resembling the several fragments of a vast ruin, suffer not the mind to be raised 
to the utmost pitch by one image of horror, but that instantaneously a second and a third are pre- 
sented to it, and the affection is still uniformly supported." — Anon. Critic. 

•i Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkley Castle. 

T Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous Queen, whose relentless cruelty la well known. 

8 Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. 



1760-1820.] seat. 593 

Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 
And Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind." 

II. 2. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord, 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrior fled? 2 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born'? 5 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 4 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey." 5 

II. 3. 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl, 6 
The rich repast prepare, 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 7 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 8 



1 Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by hia cour- 
tiers and his mistress. 

2 Edward, the Black Prince, dead some time before his father. 

8 The mmmer friends, in the Hymn to Adversity. " This image is inexpressibly beautiful, but not 
superior to that which it so happily and unaffectedly introduces." — Wakefield. 

* Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. See Froissart, and other contemporary writers. 

6 " This representation of the whirlwind, under the image of a beast of prey lying in ambush in the day- 
time, expectant of the night, is not only perfectly just and natural, but incomparably sublime." — Wake*- 
field. 

6 Richard the Second (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop and the confederate lords in thei* 
manifesto, by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older writers) was starved to death. The story 
of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon is of much later date. 

"This stanza (as an ingenious friend remarks) has exceeding merit. It breathes, in a lesser com- 
pass, what the ode breathes at large, the high spirit of lyric enthusiasm. The transitions are sudden 
and impetuous ; the language full of fire and force; and the imagery carried, without impropriety, to 
the most daring height. The manner of Richard's death by famine exhibits such beauties of personi- 
fication, as only the richest and most vivid imagination could supply. From thence we are hurried, 
with the wildest rapidity, into the midst of battle ; and the epithet kindred, places at once before our 
eyes all the peculiar horrors of civil war. Immediately, by a transition most striking and unex- 
pected, the poet falls into a tender and pathetic address ; which, from the sentiments, and also from 
the numbers, has all the melancholy flow, and breathes all the plaintive softness, of Elegy. A%*in 
the scene changes ; again the Bard rises into an allegorical description of carnage, to which the 
metre is admirably adapted : and the concluding sentence of personal punishment on Edward is de- 
nounced with a solemnity that chills and terrifies." — Mason. 

^ What can exceed the terrible sublimity of this picture ? and what is at all worthy to be put in. 
competition with it, except that of Milton, which our author seems to have had *n view J 
"He ceased, for both seem'd highly pleased; and Death 
Grinn'd horrible, a ghastly mtile."— Paradise lost, ii. §45 

8 Ruinous wars of York and Lancaster. 

2 P 50* 



594 GRAY. [GEORGE III 

Lance to lance, and. horse to horse? 

.Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 1 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort's faith, 2 his father's fame, 3 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 4 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 5 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled Boar in infant gore 6 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.' 

III. 1. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 7 
(The web is wove. The work is done.) 

Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, 

Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll ? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail, 8 
All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail! " 9 

III. 2. 

" Girt with many a baron bold, 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 



1 Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c, be* 
Jieved to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly 
attributed to Julius Caesar. 

2 Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her 
crown. 

3 Henry the Fifth. 

4 Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance 
to the crown. 

5 The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster. 

6 The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usuaUy known in his owj 
time by the name of the boar. 

7 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of 
ncr affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of 
uer, are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places. 

8 it was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and 
would return again to reign over Britain. 

9 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over 
this island ; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor. 



1760-1820.] gray. 695 

In the midst a form divine ! 

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; 

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 1 

Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. 

What strings symphonious tremble in the air ! 

What strains of vocal transport round her play ! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ! 2 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. 

III. 3. 

" The verse adorn again 

Fierce war, and faithful love, 
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskin'd measures move 
Pale grief, and pleasing pain, 
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 3 

A voice, as of the cherub choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 4 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 5 

That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : wjth joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine despair, and •■sceptred care; 

To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 6 



1 Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, 
says, "And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and 
majestical deporture, that with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes." 

2 Taliessin, chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and 
his memory is held in high veneration among his countrymen. 

3 Shakspeare. 4 Milton. 
6 The succession of poets after Milton's time. 

6 The original argument of this capital Ode, as its author had set it down in one of the pages oi his 
common-place book, is as follows: "The army of Edward I., as they march through a deep valley, 
are suddenly stopped by the appearance of a venerable figure seated on the summit of an inaccessi- 
ble rock, who, with a voice more than human, reproaches the king with all the misery and desolation 
which he had brought on his country; foretells the misfortunes of the Norman race, and with pro- 
phetic spirit declares, that all his cruelty shall never extinguish the noble ardor of poetic genius in 
this island; and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate true virtue and valor in immortal 
strains, to expose vice and infamous pleasuret and boldly censure tyranny and oppression. His 
song ended, he precipitates himself from the mountain, and is swallowed up by the river that rolls 
at its foot." 



596 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 1 

The Curfew tolls 2 the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 3 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening *are : 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

1 The reasons of that universal approbation with which this Elegy has been received, may bft 
learned from the comprehensive encomium of Dr. Johnson : "It abounds with images which find a 
mirror in every soul; and with sentiments, to which every bosom returns an echo." 

" Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he stands, I am not sure that he would not stand 
higher; it is the corner-stone of his glory." — Lord Byron. 

" Of smaller poems, the Elegy of Gray may be considered as the most exquisite and finished ex- 
ample in the world, of the effect resulting from the intermixture of evening scenery and pathetic 
.-effect ion."— Drake's Literary Hours, ii. 66. 

2 Dr. Warton would spoil the tranquil simplicity of this line, by introducing a pause with a note of 
admiration after the word " tolls." But such affectation of solemnity and suddenness in his musing 
in nowhere to be found in our author. 

3 " I know not what there is of spell in the following simple line, 

'The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,' 
but no frequency of repetition can exhaust its touching charm. This fine poem overcame even the 
euit-eful enmity of Johnson, and forced him to acknowledge its excellence."— Sir Egerton Brydgeiu 



1760-1820.J gray. 597 

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Powei, 

And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th* inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storisd urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,' 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 2 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 3 

1 A writer in the ninth volume of the Quarterly Review cites the following passage from Bishop 
Hall's Contemplations, as a singular instance of accidental resemblance: "There is many a rich 
stone laid up in the bowels of the earth, many a fair pearl in the bosom of the sea, that never wan 
«een, nor never shall be." So Milton in his Conius speaks of the 

" Sea-girt isles, 
That, like to rich and various gems, inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep." 

2 « What son of Freedom is not in raptures with this tribute of praise to such an exalted charac- 
ter, in immortal verse f This honorable testimony and the noble detestation of arbitrary power, 
with which it is accompanied, might possibly be one cause of Dr. Johnson's animosity against oui 
poet. Upon this topic the critic's feelings, we know, were irritability itself and 'tremblingly aliw 
all o'er.* "— Wakefield. 

3 These two verses are specimens of sublimity of the purest kind, like the simple grandeur of He- 
brew poetry; depending solely on the thought, unassisted by epithets and the artificial decoration! 
of expression. 



598 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture l deck'd 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 2 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate j 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
• His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love. 

I 1 - Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than his « shapeless sculpture r* "—Lord Byron. 

a [ ^ the first edition it stood, 

« Awake and faithful to her wonted fires,' 
rtnd T think rather better. He means to say, in plain prose, that we wish to be remembered by our 
friejnde after our death, in the same manner as when alive we wished to be remembered by them in 
oin absence : this would be expressed clearer, if the metaphorical term 'fires' was rejected, and the 

line run thus : — 

« Awake and faithful to her first desires.* 

I do not put this alteration down for the idle vanity of aiming to amend the passage, but purely to 
explain it." — Mason. 



1760-1820.] gray. 699 

u One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." * 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 

A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 2 

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 3 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 4 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's 5 holy shade; 

1 " Between this line and the Epitaph, Mr. Gray originally inserted a very beautiful stanza, which 
was printed in some of the first editions, but afterwards omitted, because he thought (and in my 
opinion very justly) that it was too long a parenthesis in this place. The lines, however, are, in 
themselves, exquisitely fine, and demand preservation." — Mason. 

" There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 
By hands unseen are showers of violets found ; 
The redbreast loves to build and warble there, 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground." 

2 This epitaph has been commented on, and translated into different languages, by various men of 
eminence, most of them divines. Did it never occur to any of these, that there was an impropriety 
in making the " bosom" of Almighty God an abode for human frailty to repose in ? Unless, therefore, 
the author meant by the word "bosom" only remembrance, there is certainly a great inconsistency 
in the expression. 

3 " Gray has, in his ode on Eton College, whether we consider the sweetness of the versification 
or its delicious train of plaintive tenderness, rivalled every lyric effort of ancient or of modern 
date."— Drake's Literary Hours, ii. 84. 

* These spires and towers are addressed by the poet without any use or intention ; for nothing is 
afterwards asserted of them, and they are introduced only to be dismissed in silence, and without 
further notice. The Towers of London, in the second epode of the " Bard," are not apostrophized with so 
little meaning. 

6 King Henry the Sixth, founder of the CoUege. So in the Bard, ii. 3 :— 
" And spare the meek usurper's holy head." 
Shakspeare, in Richard the Third, twice applies the same epithet; and in the Installation Ode our 
author's expression, murdered saint, is applicable enough (notwithstanding Henry was never actually 
canonized) to the monarch who, as has been well said, would have adorned a cloister, though he. 
disgraced a crown. 



600 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

And ye, that from the stately brow 

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 1 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way. 2 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade! 3 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing; 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 4 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 5 

Full many a sprightly race, 
Disporting on thy m argent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthral 1 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

1 " That is, the turf of whose lawn, the shade of whose grove, the flowers of whose mead. So in Shak- 
upeare:— 'The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword;' that is, 'The courtier's eye, the 
soldier's sword, the scholar's tongue.' This singularity often occurs in Mr. Pope."— Wakefield. 

2 Mr. Wakefield has a complaint against this compound epithet. The silver-shedding tears of Shak- 
speare, Two Gent, of Vet. Act. iii. sc. 1, and the silver-quivering rills of Pope, might perhaps have recon- 
ciled him to it, if he had recollected them. Both these expressions, as well as one from Dart's " West- 
minster Abbey," 

" Where Thames in silver-currents winds his way," 

»re cited in this place by Mr. Mitford. 

8 Mr. Wakefield here quotes from the " Odyssey," O. 397. And it may be remarked, that the an- 
eients were by no means unacquainted with that species of pathos which is derived from the melan- 
choly delight of early remembrance. The feeling which induces us to dress up the past in a fancied 
superiority of enjoyment, is natural and universal; nor can the indulgence of it be pernicious, so 
«.ong as it does not interfere with the necessary energies of the present hour. 
4 " And bees their honey redolent of spring." 

Dryden's Pythag. System. 

As Gray refers this expression to Dryden, it is probable that he was not acquainted with any ear 
lier authority. Dr. Johnson is highly offended at it, as passing beyond the utmost limits of our lan- 
guage, and of common apprehension. The critic, perhaps, never in his life partook of the feelings 
here described, or possibly he would not have objected to the expression. 

5 The ill-natured criticism of Dr. Johnson on this line cannot be refuted better than it has been by 
Mr. Mitford. " His supplication to Father Thames, to tell him who drives the hoop, or tosses the 
ball, is useless and puerile. Father Thames had no better means of knowing than himself." — Are 
we by this rule of criticism to judge the following passage in the twentieth chapter of Easselast 
" As they were sitting together, the princess cast her eyes on the river that flowed before her : An- 
swer, said she, great Father of Waters, thou that rollest thy floods through eighty nations, to the 
invocation of the daughter of tny native £ing. Tell me, if thou waterest, through all thy course, a 
single habitation, from wnicn tnou dost not hear the murmurs of complaint." 



1760-1820.] gray. 601 

While some, on earnest business bent, 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty: 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snat di a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 1 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new, 

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas! regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play; 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 2 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murtherous band J 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 3 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 

1 "This is at once poetical and just : and yet there seems to be an impropriety in the next verse :— 

Less pleasing when possest: 
for though the object of hope may truly be said to be less pleasing in possession than in the fancy ; yet 
Hope in person cannot possibly be possessed."— Wakefield. 

2 "This representation of the ministers of Fate, and the two succeeding stanzas, which exhibit the 
variety of human passions, with their several attributes, blends moral instruction with all the ani- 
mation and sublimity of poetry."— Wakefield. 

3 " I do not know that any poet, ancient or modern, has given so complete a picture of the passvmi 
in so bhort a compass." — Wakefield. 

'ol 



t>02 GRAY. [GEORGE 111 

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
And hard Unkindness' alter 'd eye, 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo! in the vale of years beneath 1 

A griesly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men, 

Condemn 'd alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

Th' unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. ' 

No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 

SONG. 

• 
Thyrsis, when we parted, swore 

Ere the spring he would return — 
Ah ! what means yon violet flower, 

And the bud that decks the thorn? 
'Twas the lark that upward sprung ! 
'Twas the nightingale that sung ! 

1 A most happy idea; and the whole stanza Is exquisitely beautiful, and will not be disgraced by 
appearing in the same view with a passage in " Paradise Lost," where description is carried to it* 
highest pitch of excellence : — 

"Immediately a place 

Before his eyes appear'd, sad, noisome, dark ; 

A lazar-house it seeni'd ; wherein were laid 

Numbers of all diseased; all maladies 

Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms 

Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds, 

Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs, 

Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs, 

Demoniac phrensy, moping melancholy, 

And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, 

Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence, 

Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums. 

Dire was the tossing, deep the groans : Despair 

Tended the sick, busied from couch to couch; 

And over them triumphant Death his dart 

Shooji.'-' Book xi. ver. 477, 



1760-1820.] gray. 603 

Idle notes ! untimely green ! 

Why this unavailing haste ? 
Western gales and skies serene 

Prove not always winter past. 
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move — 
Spare the nonor of my iove. 

The chief prose compositions of Gray are his letters, which are among the 
best in the language, full of just remarks, beautiful criticisms, and descriptions 
of natural scenery, « which a painter might study, and which a poet alone 
could have conceived ;" and occasionally exhibit a genial humor which mark 
the author of the " Ode to a Favorite Cat." In 1798, before the letters of 
Cowper were published, Dr. Beattie thus writes to a friend : " I am ac- 
quainted with many parts of your excursion through the north of England, 
and very glad that you had my old friend Mr. Gray's ' Letters' with you, 
which are indeed so well written, that I have no scruple to pronounce them 
the best letters that have been printed in our language. Lady Montagu's are 
not without merit, but are too artificial and affected to be confided in as true , 
and Lord Chesterfield's have much greater faults ; indeed, some of the greatest 
that letters can have : but Gray's letters are always sensible, and of classical 
conciseness and perspicuity. They very much resemble what his conversa- 
tion was." 

HOW HE SPENDS HIS TIME IN THE COUNTRY. 
To Mr. Walpole. 

I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the 
trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which 
your coach-wheels have so often honored, it would be needless to 
give you ; suffice it, I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great 
hunter in imagination ; his dogs take up every chair in the house, 
so I am forced to stand at this present writing ; and though the 
gout forbids his galloping after them in the field, yet he continues 
still to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and 
stink. He holds me mightily cheap, I perceive, for walking when 
I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort 
amidst all this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, 
through a green lane, a forest, (the vulgar call it a common,) all 
my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but 
myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices ; moun 
tains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor 
are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; but just such 
hills as people who love their necks as well as I do, may venture 
to climb ; and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if they 
were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are covered with most 
venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like 
most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old 
stories to the winds, — 

And, as they bow their hoary tops, relate, 

In murmur 'ng sounds, the dark decrees of fate; 



604 GRAY. [GEORGE III. 

While visions, as poetic eyes avow, 

Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough. 

At the foot of one of these squats me I, 1 (// penseroso,) and 
there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare 
and sportive squirrel gambol around me like Adam in Paradise, 
before he had an Eve ; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, 
as I commonly do there. In this situation I often converse with 
my Horace, aloud too, that is, talk to you, but I do not remember 
that I ever heard you answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the 
conversation to myself, but it is entirely your own fault. I shall 
be in town in about three weeks. Adieu. 

September, 1737. 

NETLEY ABBEY AND SOUTHAMPTON. BEAUTIFUL SUNSET. 

To Mr. Nicholls. 2 

I received your letter at Southampton, and as I would wish to 
treat everybody according to their own rule and measure of good 
breeding, have, against my inclination, waited till now before I 
answered it, purely out of fear and respect, and an ingenious diffi- 
dence of my own abilities. If you will not take this as an excuse, 
accept it at least as a well-turned period, which is always my 
principal concern. 

So I proceed to tell you that my health is much improved by 
the sea ; not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the common people 
do : no ! I only walked by it, and looked upon it. The climate 
is remarkably mild, even in October and November ; no snow has 
been seen to lie there for these thirty years past ; the myrtles 
grow in the ground against the houses, and Guernsey lilies bloom 
in every window ; the town, clean and well-built, surrounded by 
its old stone walls, w T ith their towers and gateways, stands at the 
point of a peninsula, and opens full south to an arm of the sea, 
which, having formed two beautiful bays on each hand of it, 
stretches away in direct view till it joins the British Channel : it 
is skirted on either side with gently-rising grounds, clothed with 
thick wood, and directly cross its mouth rise the high lands of 
the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the bosom 
of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of 
Netley Abbey ; there may be richer and greater houses of reli- 
gion, but the Abbot is content with his situation. See there, at 
the top of that hanging meadow T , under the shade of those old 
Irees that bend into a half circle about it, he is walking slowly, 

1 " The same ludicrous expression is met with in Foote's play of ' The Knights,' p. 27, from the 
rronth of Sir Penurious Trifle :— ' And what does me I, but take a trip to a coffee-house in St. Martin's 
Lane,' &c. See also 'Don Quixote' by Smollet, vol. iv. p. 30."— Mitford. 

2 Rector of Lounde and Brad well, in Suffolk. His acquaintance with Mr. Gray commenced a few 
y.'ars before the date of this, when he was a student in Cambridge 



1^ 60-1820.] gray. 605 

(good man !) and bidding his beads for the souls ;>f his benefactors, 
interred in that venerable pile that lies beneath him. Beyond it 
(the meadow still descending) nods a thicket of oaks that mask 
the building, and have excluded a view too garish and luxuriant 
for a holy eye ; only on either hand they leave an opening to the 
blue glittering sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail 
shot by and was lost, he turned and crossed himself to drive the 
tempter from him that had thrown that distraction in his way ? I 
should tell you, that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty young 
fellow, told me that he would not for all the world pass a night at 
ihe Abbey (there were such things seen near it) though there 
was a power of money hid there. From thence I went to Salis- 
bury, Wilton, and Stonehenge ; but of these I say no more ; they 
will be published at the University press. 

P. S. — I must not close my letter without giving you one prin- 
cipal event of my history; which was, that (in the course of my 
late tour) I set out one morning before five o'clock, the moon 
shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and got to the 
sea-coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I saw the clouds 
and dark vapors open gradually to right and left, rolling over one 
another in great smoky wreaths, and the tide, (as it flowed gently 
in upon the sand.) first whitening, then slightly tinged with gold 
and blue ; and all at once a little line of insufferable brightness 
that (before I can write these five words) was grown to half an 
orb, and now to a whole one, too glorious to be distinctly seen. 1 
It is very odd it makes no figure on paper ; yet I shall remember 
it as long as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder 
whether anybody ever saw it before ? I hardly believe it. 



TO MR. NICHOLLS, ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. 

It is long since that I heard you were gone in haste into York- 
shire on account of your mother's illness, and the same letter in- 
formed me that she was recovered, otherwise I had then wrote to 
you only to beg you would take care of her, and to inform you 
that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in 
one's whole life one can never have any more than a single mother 
You may think this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite obser- 
vation. You are a green gosling ! I was at the same age (very 
near) as wise as you, and yet I never discovered this (with full 
evidence and conviction I mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen 
years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I live it 

1 See a description of similar beauty by Jeremy Taylor, p. 223, under " Dawn and Progress of 
Reason." 

51* 



606 SMOLLET. [GEORGE III. 

sinks deeper into my heart. 1 Many a corollary could I draw from 
this axiom for your use, (not for my own,) but I will leave you the 
merit of doing it for yourself. 

TO MR. MASON, ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE. 

I break in upon you at a moment when we least of all are per- 
mitted to disturb our friends, only to say, that you are daily and 
hourly present to my thoughts. If the worst 2 be not yet past, you 
will neglect and pardon me : but if the last struggle be over ; if 
the poor object of your long anxieties be no longer sensible to your 
kindness, or to her own sufferings, allow me (at least in idea, for 
what could I do were I present more than this?) to sit by you in 
silence, and pity from my heart not her, who is at rest, but you, 
who lose her. May He, who made us, the Master of our plea- 
sures and of our pains, preserve and support you ! Adieu ! 

I have long understood how little you had to hope. 

March 28, 1767. 



TOBIAS SMOLLET. 1721—1771. 

Tobias Smollet was descended of a family of some note in Dumbarton- 
shire, Scotland, and passed his earliest years along the banks of the Leven. 
He early showed a genius for poetry, but on finishing his academical educa- 
tion, he was put apprentice to a surgeon, and pursued his professional studies 
with diligence, till the death of his grandfather, on whom he had depended, 
left him without the means of support, and he went to London. Not being 
able to get literary employment, he accepted an appointment as surgeon"s- 
mate on board a man-of-war. But his literary taste prevailed over his profes- 
sional, and quitting the service he returned to London in 1746, and soon be- 
came one of the most successful authors of the day. Novels, plays, and a 
" History of England" were produced in rapid succession, and added largely 
to his income. After a life of most checkered character, having suffered long 
from ill health, he set out for Italy in 1770, in hopes to receive benefit from 
that climate ; but after a short residence in the neighborhood of Leghorn in 
very distressed circumstances, he died October 21, 1771. 

As a novelist, Smollefs reputation, once very high, is growing less every 
year with the best portion of the reading world, and must continue to do so 
as a love of moral purity shall continue to increase : for " indecency and 

1 " He seldom mentioned his mother without a sigh. After his death her gowns and wearing appa- 
»el were found in a trunk in his apartments just as she had left them ; it seemed as if he could never 
tike the resolution to open it, in order to distribute them to his female relations, to whom, by his 
will, he bequeathed them." — Mason. 

2 "As this little billet (which I received at the Hot "Wells at Bristol) then breathed, and still seems 
to breathe, the very voice of friendship in its tenderest and most pathetic note, I cannot refrain from 
publishing it in this place. I opened it almost at the precise moment when it would necessarily be 
*ihe most affecting."- -Mason. 



1760-1820.] smollet. 607 

filth" pervade all his fictitious writings. 1 As an historian, he writes in a clear 
and easy style; but neither his temper of mind nor his pursuits qualified him 
for an historical writer. As a poet, though he takes not a very high rank, yet 
the few poems which he has left have a delicacy which is not to be found in 
his novels. 

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 2 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy sons, for valor long renown'd, 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door ; 
In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks; 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime, 
Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ] 
Thy towering spirit now is broke, 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage and rancour fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night : 
No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
And naught be heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

Oh ! baneful cause, oh ! fatal morn, 
Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 



1 Read — Hazlitt's "English Comic Writers," whose opinion I here quote, being happy to say 
that. I neves read but one of Smollet's novels, and such ^tos its character that I never wish to read 
another. 

2 These fine verses were written in 1746, on the barbarities committed in the Highlands by order 
of the Duke of Cumberland, after the battle of Culloden. The dreadful cruelties practised upon the 
vanquished, made his name execrated throughout Scotland, and have fixed an indelible stain upon 
his memory. Read— Chambers's "History of the Rebellion," a small work replete with interest. 

When Smollet wrote this poem, he was, as mentioned in the above biographical sketch, a surgeon's- 
mate, lately returned from service abroad. It is said that he originally finished the poem in six 
stanzas; when, some one representing that such a diatribe against government might injure his 
prospects, he sat down and added the still more pointed invective of the seventh stanza. 



608 SMOLLET. [GEORGE III. 

The sons against their fathers stood, 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased : 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames and murdering steel ! 

The pious mother, doom'd to death, 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; 
The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
She views the shades of night descend : 
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpaired remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathizing verse shall flow : 
" Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." 



ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. 

On Leven's banks, while free to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The springing trout, in speckled pride, 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war, 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, 
And edges flower'd with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks so gayly green, 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail, 
And shepherds piping in the dale ■ 
And ancient faith that knows no guile, 
And industry embrown'd with toil ; 
And heart resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 



17G0-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 609 



JOHIN HAWKESWORTH. 1719—1773. 

But little is known of the family or early history of John Hawkesworth. 
He was born in the year 1719, but how or where educated it is not known. 
His first appearance as a writer was in 1744, at the age of twenty-five, when 
he was engaged by the editor of the Gentleman's Magazine to succeed Dr. 
Johnson as compiler of the Parliamentary Debates ; so that he must have had, 
at that time, considerable reputation as a literary character. In 1752, owing 
to the success which the " Rambler" had met with, he was induced to pro- 
ject and commence a periodical paper, under the title of " The Adventurer," 
having received the promise of assistance from Johnson, Warton, and others. 
For a work of this kind he was eminently qualified. His learning, though 
not deep, was elegant and various ; his style was polished, his imagination 
ardent, his standard of morals high, and he possessed an intimate knowledge 
of the world. The first number of the " Adventurer" was published on the 
7th of November, 1752, and the paper was continued every Tuesday and 
Saturday, until the 9th of March, 1754. The name, design, and manage- 
ment, and the writing of seventy of the one hundred and forty numbers, are 
to be ascribed to Hawkesworth. The sale, during its circulation in separate 
papers, was very extensive ; and when thrown into volumes, four large edi- 
tions passed through the press in eight years. " The variety, the fancy, the 
taste, and practical morality, which the pages of this periodical paper exhibit, 
were such as to ensure popularity ; and it may be pronounced, as a whole, 
the most spirited and fascinating of the class to which it belongs." 1 

The reputation which Hawkesworth had acquired induced him, at the re- 
quest of Garrick, to turn his attention to the drama, and in 1760, he brought 
forward his first piece, called " Zimri, an Oratorio," which was tolerably well 
received. A few other plays followed : but as they did not meet with great 
success, in 1765 he undertook the office of Reviewer in the Gentleman's 
Magazine; which department he filled with great ability until the year 1772. 
In 1765 he published an edition of Swiff s works, in 19 volumes, accompanied 
by explanatory notes, and prefixed with a well-written life. 

On the return of Captain Cook from his first voyage of discovery in the 
South Seas, it being thought desirable, by government, to intrust the task of 
compiling an account of the voyage to a literary man, rather than to one of 
the voyagers, Dr. Hawkesworth's reputation as a beautiful and able writer 
obtained for him the commission. He completed his task in 1773, in 3 vols, 
quarto, which were illustrated by charts, maps, and engravings, executed in 
a very splendid manner. For this labor he received the princely remunera- 
tion of six thousand pounds. The work, however, met with very severe and 
deserved censure, owing to . the glowing representations and the licentious 
pictures it presented of the manners and customs of the islanders of the South 
Seas; and to some speculations of a religious character which seemed to 
border upon skepticism. His enemies made the most of these defects, and 
held them up to public ridicule and censure ; and so keen was his sensibility, 
that his health was soon affected by it, and he died on die 16th of November 
of the same year, 1773. 

Dr. Hawkesworth was certainly an elegant scholar. "His writings, with 
the exception of the last ill-fated work, have a tendency uniformly conducive 
to the interests of virtue and religion; and we may add, that the errors of 

Head, a very interesting memoir of Hawkesworth in the fifth volume of Drake's E^«a-y». 

2 Q 



610 HAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III. 

that unfortunate production must be attributed rather to defect of judgment, 
than to any dereliction of principle. His imagination was fertile and brilliant, 
his diction pure, elegant, and unaffected. He was in a high degree charita- 
ble, humane, and benevolent; his manners were polished and affable, and 
his conversation has been described as uncommonly fascinating. He died, 
it is said, tranquil and resigned, and, we trust, deriving hope and comfort 
from a firm belief in that religion which his best writings had been employed 
to defend." 

VALUE OF FAMILIAR LETTERS. 

In a series of familiar letters between the same friends for thirty 
years, their whole life, as it were, passes in review before us ; we 
live with them, we hear them talk, we mark the vigor of life, the 
ardor of expectation, the hurry of business, the jollity of their 
social meetings, and the sport of their fancy in the sweet intervals 
of leisure and retirement; we see the scene gradually change; 
hope and expectation are at an end ; they regret pleasures that 
are past, and friends that are dead ; they complain of disappoint- 
ment and infirmity ; they are conscious that the sands of life 
which remain are few ; and while we hear them regret the ap- 
proach of the last, it falls, and we lose them in the grave. Such 
as they were, we feel ourselves to be ; we are conscious to senti- 
ments, connections, and situations like theirs ; we find ourselves 
in the same path, urged forward by the same necessity ; and the 
parallel in what has been, is carried on with such force to what 
shall be, that the future almost becomes present ; and we wonder 
at the new power of those truths, of which we never doubted the 
reality and importance. 

Preface to the Letters of Dean Swift. 
DANGER OF RELAPSE AFTER PURPOSES OF AMENDMENT. 

The dread of death has seldom been found to intrude upon the 
cheei fulness, simplicity, and innocence of children ; they gaze at 
a funeral procession with as much vacant curiosity as at any other 
show, and see the world change before them without the least 
sense of their own share in the vicissitude. In youth, when all 
the appetites are strong, and every gratification is heightened by 
novelty, the mind resists mournful impressions with a kind of 
elastic power, by which the signature that is forced upon it is 
immediately effaced : when this tumult first subsides, while the 
attachment of life is yet strong, and the mind begins to look for- 
ward, and concert measures by which those enjoyments may be 
secured which it is solicitous to keep, or others obtained to atone 
for the disappointments that are past, then death starts up like a 
spectre in all its terrors, the blood is chilled at his appearance, he 
is perceived to approach with a constant and irresistible pace ; 
retruat is impossible, and resistance is vain. 



1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 611 

The terror and anguish which this image produces whenever 
it first rushes upon the mind, are always complicated with a sense 
of guiu and remorse ; and generally produce some hasty and 
zealous purposes of more uniform virtue and more ardent devo- 
tion, of something that may secure us not only from the worm that 
never dies, and the fire that is not quenched, but from total mor- 
tality, and admit hope to the regions beyond the grave. 

This purpose is seldom wholly relinquished, though it is not 
always executed with vigor and perseverance ; the reflection 
which produced it often recurs, but it still recurs with less force ; 
desire of immediate pleasure becomes predominant ; appetite is 
no longer restrained ; and either all attempts to secure future hap- 
piness are deferred "to a more convenient season," or some expe- 
dients are sought to render sensuality and virtue compatible, and 
to obtain every object of hope without lessening the treasures of 
possession. Thus vice naturally becomes the disciple of inn* 
delity ; and the wretch who dares not aspire to the heroic virtue 
of a Christian, listens with eagerness to every objection against 
the authority of that law by which he is condemned, and labors 
in vain to establish another that will acquit him : he forms many 
arguments to justify natural desires; he learns at length to im- 
pose upon himself; and assents to principles which vat in his- 
heart he does not believe ; he thinks himself convinced that vir- 
tue must be happiness, and then dreams that happin3ss is virtue. 

Let those who still delay that which yet they believe to be of 
eternal moment, remember that their motives to effect it will still 
grow weaker, and the difficulty of the work perpetually increase ; 
to neglect it now, therefore, is a pledge that it will be neglected 
for ever : and if they are roused by this thought, let them instantly 
improve its influence ; for even this thought, when it returns, will 
return with less power, and though it should rouse them now, will, 
perhaps rouse them no more. But let them not confide in such 
virtue as can be practised without a struggle, and which interdicts 
the gratification of no passion but malice ; nor adopt principles 
which could never be believed at the only time when they could 
be useful ; like arguments which men sometimes form when they 
slumber, and the moment they awake discover to be absurd. 

Let those who in the anguish of an awakened mind have re- 
gretted the past, and resolved to redeem it in the future, persist 
invariably to do whatever they then wished to have done. Let 
this be established as a constant rule of action, and opposed to all 
the cavils of sophistry and sense ; for this wish will inevitably 
return when it must for ever be ineffectual, at that awful momenJ 
when " the shadow of death shall be stretched over them, and thai 
night commence in which no man can work." 

Adventurer, No .'30 



612 HAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III. 



HOW FAR THE PRECEPT TO LOVE OUR ENEMIES IS PRACTICABLE. 

To love an enemy is the distinguishing characteristic of a re- 
ligion which is not of man but of God. It could be delivered as 
a precept only by Him who lived and died to establish it by his 
example. 

At the close of that season, 1 in which human frailty has com- 
memorated sufferings which it could not sustain, it cannot, surely, 
be incongruous to consider, what approaches we can make to 
that divine love which these sufferings expressed, and how far 
man, in imitation of his Saviour, can bless those who curse him, 
and return good for evil. 

We cannot, indeed, behold the example but at a distance ; nor 
consider it without being struck with a sense of our own debility : 
every man who compares his life with this divine rule, instead of 
exulting in his own excellence, will smite his breast like the pub- 
lican, and cry out, " God be merciful to me a sinner !" Thus to 
acquaint us with ourselves, may, perhaps, be one use of the pre- 
cept ; but the precept cannot, surely, be considered as having no 
other. 

I know it will be said, that our passions are not in our power ; 
and that, therefore, a precept, to love or to hate, is impossible ; 
for if the gratification of all our wishes was offered us to love a 
stranger as we love a child, we could not fulfil the condition, how- 
ever we might desire the reward. 

But admitting this to be true, and that we cannot love an enemy 
as we love a friend ; it is yet equally certain, that we may per- 
form those actions which are produced by love, from a higher 
principle : we may, perhaps, derive moral excellence from natural 
defects, and exert our reason instead of indulging a passion. If 
our pnemy hungers, we may feed him, and if he thirsts, we may 
give him drink : this, if we could love him, would be our conduct ; 
and this may still be our conduct, though to love him is impossi- 
ble. The Christian will be prompted to relieve the necessities of 
his enemy, by his love to God : he will rejoice in an opportunity 
to express the zeal of his gratitude and the alacrity of his obe- 
dience, at the same time that he appropriates the promises and 
anticipates his reward. 

But though he who is beneficent upon these principles, may, 
in the Scripture sense, be said to love his enemy ; yet something 
more may still be effected : the passion itself in some degree is in 
uur power ; we mav rise to a yet nearer emulation of divine for- 
giveness; we may think as well as act with kindness, and be sanc- 
tified as well in heart as in life. 

1 Tht season which commemorates the suflerings of the Saviour 



1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 613 

Though love and hatred are necessarily produced in the human 
breast, when the proper objects of these passions occur, as the 
color of material substances is necessarily perceived by an eye be- 
fore which they are exhibited ; yet it is in our power to change the 
passion, and to cause either love or hatred to be excited by placing 
the same object in different circumstances ; as a changeable silk 
of blue and yellow may be held so as to excite the idea either of 
yellow or blue. 

No act is deemed more injurious, or resented with greater acri 
mony, than the marriage of a child, especially of a daughter, 
without the consent of a parent : it is frequently considered as a 
breach of the strongest and tenderest obligations ; as folly and in- 
gratitude, treachery and rebellion. By the imputation of these 
vices, a child becomes the object of indignation and resentment : 
indignation and resentment in the breast, therefore, of the parent, 
are necessarily excited : and there can be no doubt, but that these 
are species of hatred. But if the child is considered as still re- 
taining the endearing softness of filial affection, as still longing 
for reconciliation, and profaning the rites of marriage w T ith tears ; 
as having been driven from the path of duty, only by the violence 
of passions which none have always resisted, and which many 
have indulged with much greater turpitude ; the same object that 
before excited indignation and resentment, will now be regarded 
with pity, and pity is a species of love. 

Those, indeed, who resent this breach of filial duty with im- 
placability, though perhaps it is the only one of which the offender 
has been guilty, demonstrate that they are without natural affec- 
tion ; and that they would have prostituted their offspring, if not 
to lust, yet to affections which are equally vile and sordid, the thirst 
of gold, or the cravings of ambition .- for he can never be thought 
to be sincerely interested in the felicity of his child, who, when 
some of the means of happiness are lost by indiscretion, suffers his 
resentment to take away the rest. 

Among friends, sallies of quick resentment are extremely fre- 
quent. Friendship is a constant reciprocation of benefits, to which 
the sacrifice of private interest is sometimes necessary : it is com- 
mon for each to set too much value upon those which he bestows, 
and too little upon those which he receives ; this mutual mistake 
in so important an estimation, produces mutual charges of unkind 
ness and ingratitude ; each, perhaps, professes himself ready to 
forgive, but neither will condescend to be forgiven. Pride, there- 
fore, still increases the enmity which it began '; the friend is con- 
sidered as selfish, assuming, injurious, and revengeful ; he conse 
quently becomes an object of hatred ; and while he is thus con- 
sidered, to love him is impossible. But thus to consider him, is at 
once a folly and a fault ; each ought to reflect, that he is, at least 

52 



614 HAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III. 

in the opinion of the other, incurring the crimes that he imputes ; 
that the foundation of their enmity is no more than a mistake , 
and that this mistake is the effect of weakness or vanity, which is 
common to all mankind : the character of both would then assume 
a very different aspect, love would again be excited by the return 
of its object, and each would be impatient to exchange acknow- 
ledgments, and recover the felicity which was so near being lost. 

But if, after we have admitted an acquaintance to our bosom as 
a friend, it should appear that we had mistaken his character ; if 
he should betray our confidence, and use the knowledge of our 
affairs, which perhaps he obtained by offers of service, to effect 
our ruin : if he defames us to the world, and adds perjury to false- 
hood ; we may still consider him in such circumstances as will 
incline us to fulfil the precept, and to regard him without the ran- 
cor of hatred or the fury of revenge. 

Every character, however it may deserve punishment, excites 
hatred only in proportion as it appears to be malicious ; and pure 
malice has never been imputed to human beings. The wretch, 
who has thus deceived and injured us, should be considered as 
having ultimately intended, not evil to us, but good to himself. 
It should also be remembered that he has mistaken the means ; 
that he has forfeited the friendship of Him whose favor is better 
than life, by the same conduct which forfeited ours ; and that to 
whatever view he sacrificed our temporal interest, to that also he 
sacrificed his own hope of immortality ; that he is now seeking 
felicity which he can never find, and incurring punishment that 
will last for ever. And how much better than this wretch is he, 
in whom the contemplation of his condition can excite no pity ? 
Surely if such an enemy hungers, we may, without suppressing 
any passion, give him food : for who that sees a criminal dragged 
to execution, for whatever crime, would refuse him a cup of cold 
water 1 

On the contrary, he whom God has forgiven must necessarily 
become amiable to man: to consider his character without preju- 
dice or partiality, after it has been changed by repentance, is to 
love him ; and impartially to consider it, is not only our duty, but 
our interest. 

Thus may we love our enemies, and add a dignity to our nature, 
of which pagan virtue had no conception. But if to love our ene- 
mies is the glory of a Christian, to treat others with coldness, 
neglect, and malignity, is rather the reproach of a fiend than a 
man. Unprovoked enmity, the frown of unkindness, and the 
menaces of oppression, should be far from those who profess 
themselves to be followers of Him who in his life went about 
doing good ; who instantly healed a wound that was given in his 
defence ; and who, when he was fainting in his last agony, and 



1700-1820.] HAWKESWORTII. 615 

treated with mockery and derision, conceived at once a prayer and 
an apology for his murderers : " Father, forgive them, they know 
not what they do." 

Adventurer, No. 48. 
CARAZAN, THE MERCHANT OF BAGDAD. 

Carazan, the merchant of Bagdad, was emment throughout all 
the East for his avarice and his wealth : his origin was obscure 
as that of the spark which, by the collision of steel and adamant, 
is struck out of darkness ; and the patient labor of persevering 
diligence alone had made him rich. It was remembered, that 
when he was indigent he was thought to be generous ; and he 
was still acknowledged to be inexorably just. But whether in his 
dealings with men he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to 
put his trust in gold, or whether in proportion as he accumulated 
wealth he discovered his own importance to increase, Carazan 
prized it more as he used it less ; he gradually lost the inclination 
to do good, as he acquired the power: and as the hand of time 
scattered snow upon his head, the freezing influence extended to 
his bosom. 

But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospi- 
tality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to 
the mosque at the stated hours of prayer ; he performed all the 
rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had 
thrice paid his vows at the Temple of the Prophet. That devo- 
tion which arises from the Love of God, and necessarily includes 
the Love of Man, as it connects gratitude with beneficence, and 
exalts that which was moral to divine, confers new dignity upon 
goodness, and is the object not only of affection but reverence. 
On the contrary, the devotion of the selfish, whether it be thought 
to avert the punishment which every one wishes to be inflicted, 
or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy with guilt, never 
fails to excite indignation and abhorrence. Carazan, therefore, 
when he had locked his door, and turning round with a look of 
circumspective suspicion, proceeded to the mosque, was followed 
by every eye with silent malignity ; the poor suspended their 
supplication when he passed by ; and though he was known by 
every man, yet no man saluted him. 

Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such was the cha- 
racter which he had acquired, when notice was given by procla- 
mation, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the 
centre of the city, that his table should be spread for the public, 
and that the stranger should be welcome to his bed. The multi 
tude soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they beheld him 
distributing bread to the hungry and apparel to the naked — nis eye 
softened with compassion, and his cheek glowing with delight. 



616 HAWKESWORTH. [GEORGE III 

Every one gazed with astonishment at the prodigy; and the mur- 
mur of innumerable voices increasing like the sound of approach- 
ing thunder, Carazan beckoned with his hand ; attention suspended 
die tumult in a moment, and he thus gratified the curiosity which 
had procured him audience. 

" To Him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the Al- 
mighty and the most merciful, be everlasting honor ! Fie has 
ordained sleep to be the minister of instruction, and his visions 
have reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my 
harem, with my lamp burning before mt, computing the product 
of my merchandise, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I 
fell into a deep sleep, and the hand of Him who dwells in the 
third Heaven was upon me. I beheld the Angel of death coming 
forward like a whirlwind, and he smote me before I could depre- 
cate the blow. At the same moment I felt myself lifted from the 
ground, and transported with astonishing rapidity through the re- 
gions of the air. The earth was contracted to an atom beneath ; 
and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that obscured the 
sun. The gate of Paradise was now in sight ; and I was inter- 
cepted by a sudden brightness which no human eye could behold : 
the irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced ; my day of 
probation was past : and from the evil of my life nothing could be 
taken away, nor could any thing be added to the good. When I 
reflected that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the pow- 
ers of nature could reverse, my confidence totally forsook me ; and 
while I stood trembling and silent, covered with confusion and 
chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by the radiance that 
flamed before me : 

" ' Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted ; because it was 
not prompted by Love of God ; neither can thy righteousness be 
rewarded, because it was not produced by Love of Man : for thy 
own sake only hast thou rendered to every man his due ; and 
thou hast approached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou hast 
not looked up with gratitude, nor around thee with kindness. 
Around thee, thou hast, indeed, beheld vice and folly ; but if vice 
and folly could justify thy parsimony, would they not condemn 
the bounty of Heaven ? If not upon the foolish and the vicious, 
where shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil their dew ? 
Where shall the lips of the Spring breathe fragrance, or the hand 
of Autumn diffuse plenty ? Remember, Carazan, that thou hast 
shut compassion from thine heart, and grasped thy treasures with 
a hand of iron : thou hast lived for thyself; and, therefore, hence- 
forth for ever thou shalt subsist alone. From the light of Heaven, 
and from the society of all beings, shalt thou be 'driven ; solitude 
shall protract the lingering hours of eternity, and darkness aggra- 
vate the horrors of despair.' At this moment I was driven by 



1760-1820.] HAWKESWORTH. 617 

some secret and irresistible power through the glowing system of 
creation, and passed innumerahle worlds in a moment. As I ap- 
proached the verge of nature, I perceived the shadows of total 
and boundless vacuity deepen before me, a dreadful region of eter- 
nal silence, solitude, and darkness ! Unutterable horror seized me 
at the prospect, and this exclamation burst from me with all the 
vehemence of desire : Oh ! that I had been doomed for ever to 
the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt ! their society 
would have alleviated the torment of despair, and the rage of fire 
could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or if I had been 
condemned to reside in a comet, that would return but once in a 
thousand years to the regions of light and life ; the hope of these 
periods, however distant, would cheer me in the dread interval of 
cold and darkness, and the vicissitudes would divide eternity into 
time. While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight of 
the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was quenched 
in utter darkness. The agonies of despair every moment in- 
creased, as every moment augmented my distance from the last 
habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when 
ten thousand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach of 
all but that Power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward 
into an immense abyss of darkness, through which I should still 
drive without succor and without society, farther and farther still, 
for ever and for ever. I then stretched out my hand towards the 
regions of existence, with an emotion that awaked me. Thus 
have I been taught to estimate society, like every other blessing, 
by its loss. My heart is warmed to liberality ; and I am zealous 
to communicate the happiness which I feel, to those from whom 
it is derived ; for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride 
of prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, in the 
dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, have been more 
highly prized than the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda." 

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly 
silent, and looked upward in ecstasy of gratitude and devotion. 
The multitude were struck at once with the precept and exam 
pie ; and the caliph, to whom the event was related, that he might 
be liberal beyond the power of gold, commanded it to be recorded 
for the benefit of posterity. 



Adventurer, No. 132. 



A LESSON FROM THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 1 

The hour is hastening, in which, whatever praise or censure I 
have acquired hy these compositions, if they are remembered at 
all, will be remembered with equal indifference, and the tenor of 

1 The concluding paragraph of the last number of thi Adventurer. 

5** 



618 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE IIL 

them only will afford me comfort. Time, who is impatient to date 
my last paper, will shortly moulder the hand that is now writing 
it in the dust, and still the breast that now throbs at the reflection : 
but let not this be read as something that relates only to another; 
for a few years only can divide the eye that is now reading from 
the hand that has written. This awful truth, however obvious, 
and however reiterated, is yet frequently forgotten ; for, surely, 
if we did not lose our remembrance, or at least our sensibility, that 
view would always predominate in our lives, which alone can 
afford us comfort when we die. 

The following little poem, composed but a month before his death, and 
dictated to Mrs. Hawkesworth before he rose in the morning, will prove how 
vividly he felt, at that period, the consolations arising from dependence on 
the mercy of his God. 

HYMN. 

In Sleep's serene oblivion laid, 

I safely pass'd the silent night ; 
At once I see the breaking shade, 

And drink again the morning light. 

New-born I bless the waking hour, 

Once more, with awe, rejoice to be; 
My conscious soul resumes her power, 

And springs, my gracious God, to thee 

O, guide me through the various maze 

My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread; 
And spread Thy shield's protecting blaze, 

When dangers press around my head. 

A deeper shade will soon impend, 

A deeper sleep my eyes oppress ; 
Yet still thy strength shall me defend, 

Thy goodness still shall deign to bless. 

That deeper shade shall fade away, 

That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes ; 
Thy light shall give eternal day ! 

Thy love the rapture of the skies ! 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728—1774. 

This distinguished poet, novelist, historian, and essayist, was born at Palla* 
in tne county of Longford, Ireland, on November 10, 1728. His father was 
a clergyman, and held the living of Kilkenny West, in the county of West- 
meath. After studying the classics at two or three private schools, he en- 
tered Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizer, 1 in his fifteenth year. Here he was 



l See Note 2 on page S3. 



1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 610 

idle, extravagant, and occasionally insubordinate ; though we ought in justice 
to say that a most injudicious and passionate tutor, a Mr. Wilder, should he 
held partly responsible for the unsatisfactory nature of Goldsmith's college 
career. 

About the time of his leaving the university his father died, 1 but his uncle, 
the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who had already borne the principal part of the 
expenses of his education, amply supplied the father's place. Disappointed 
in one or two plans that he had marked out for him, he determined to send 
him to London, to study the law, at the Temple. But stopping at Dublin on 
his way, he lost, in gambling, the sum that had been given him for the ex 
penses of his journey, and returned home penniless. The kindness of his 
uncle was not yet exhausted, and he sent him to Edinburgh to study medi 
cine, where he arrived at the close of the year 1752. Here he remained 
about eighteen months, when, in consequence of becoming security to a con- 
siderable amount for a classmate, he was obliged to quit the city abruptly, and 
sailed for Leyden. Here he studied about a year, and then set out to make 
the tour of Europe on foot ; having with him, it is said, only one clean shirt, 
and no money, and trusting to his wits for support. 2 By various expedients 
he worked his way through Flanders, parts of France and Germany, Switzer- 
land, (where he composed part of " The Traveller,") and the North of Italy, 
and returned to London in the autumn of 1756, with an empty pocket, in- 
deed, but with a mind enriched by observations of foreign countries, which 
he has so admirably expressed in that charming poem — " The Traveller." 

After trying various means of a professional character for support, he re- 
solved to depend upon his pen; and in April, 1757, made an engagement 
with Mr. Griffiths, the proprietor of the Monthly Review, to write for that 
journal, for a salary, and his board and lodging in the proprietor's house. At 
the end of seven or eight months, this engagement was given up by mutual 
consent, and Goldsmith went into private lodgings, to finish his " Inquiry into 
the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe," which was published in 
1759. His next publication was "The Bee," a series of Essays on a variety 
of subjects, published weekly, which, for want of support, terminated with the 
eighth number, November 24, 1759. Though neglected at their first appear- 
ance, yet, when known, some time after, to be from the same pen as "The 
Traveller," and the " Vicar of Wakefield," they were very generally read 
and admired. Such is the world ; withholding from unknown and unhonored 
genius that praise which it lavishes when needed not. 



1 "To this very amiable father, the son, by his power in the delineation of character, has given 
celebrity in three of his sketches; one in the 'Citizen of the World' (Letter 27th) ; a second »n Dr 
Primrose, in the 'Vicar of Wakefield;' and a third, as the family always stated, in reference to his 
spiritual character, in the Preacher in the 'Deserted Village.' Each has peculiarities that distinguish 
it from the other, yet touched so skilfully, that with some variation, they cannot be said to offer a 
contradiction." — Prior. 

2 The following passage in the "Vicar of Wakefield" is supposed to describe his own travels: "1 
had some knowledge of music, and now turned what was once my amusement into a present means 
of subsistence. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards night-fall, I played one ot my 
most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day." S» 
also the lines in "The Traveller," in the picture of the Swiss— 

"And haply, too, some pilgrim thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed." 
And also in the picture of France, 

" How often have I led thy sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire?" fee 



620 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. 

In 1760, he published his "Letters of a Citizen of the World," 1 which 
were very generally read and as generally admired ; and have long taken 
their stand in the list of English classics. His next work was his celebrated 
novel, "■The "Vicar of Wakefield," which, though finished in 1763, was not 
published till 1766, when his "Traveller" had established his fame. But it 
no sooner appeared than it secured the warmest friends among every descrip- 
tion of readers ; with the old, by the purity of its moral lessons ; and with the 
young, by the interest of the story. Its great charm is its close adherence to 
nature ; nature in its commendable, not in its vicious points of view. " The 
Primrose family is a great creation of genius: such a picture of warm-hearted 
simplicity, mingled with the little foibles and weaknesses common to the best 
specimens of humanity, that we find nothing like it in the whole range of 
fiction." 2 

In December, 1764, was published "The Traveller," the earliest of his 
productions to which Goldsmith prefixed his name. Dr. Johnson was the 
first to introduce it to the public, in a notice in the Critical Review, closing 
his remarks with these words : " Such is the poem on which we now con- 
gratulate the public, as on a production to which, since the death of Pope, it 
will not be easy to find any thing equal." It is hardly necessary to say how 
perfectly this sentiment has been universally concurred in ; for few poems in 
the English language have been more deservedly popular. In 1765 he pub- 
lished his ballad of the " Hermit," and engaged in other works for the book- 
sellers, to supply his immediate wants. In 1768 appeared his comedy of 
" The Good-Natured Man," which had not much success ; but in the next 
year the " Deserted Village" was given to the public, which gave him a still 
higher rank, and still greater celebrity as a poet .3 In the same year he 

1 These Letters purported to be written by a Chinese philosopher, wno, in travelling through Eu- 
rope, for the purpose of examining the manners and customs of the various nations, fixed his resi- 
dence for some time in England, for the purpose of describing the manners of its people. He is full 
of the wisest reflections upon men and manners, and sometimes utters very startling sentiments. 

2 Prior, vol. ii. p. ill. ""We read the 'Vicar of Wakefield' in youth and in age, — we return to it 
again and again, and bless the memory of an author who contrives so well to reconcile us to human 
nature." — Sir Walter Scott. 

"The irresistible charm this novel possesses, evinces how much maybe done without the aid of 
extravagant incident, to excite the imagination and interest the feelings. Few productions of this 
kind afford greater amusement in the perusal, and still fewer inculcate more impressive lessons of 
morality. Though wit and humor abound in every page, yet in the whole volume there is not one 
thought injurious in its tendency, nor one sentiment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language, 
in the words of an elegant writer, is what ' angels might have heard, and virgins told.' " — Washington 
Irving. 

An interesting anecdote relative to this novel, told by Boswell in his Life of Johnson, and which 
has been illustrated by a most beautiful engraving, may here be repeated: — "I received one morn- 
ing," says Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was 
not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a 
guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and 
round that his landlady had arrested him for his rent; at which he was in a violent passion. I per- 
ceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira, and a glass before 
nim- I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means 
oy which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he 
produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return ; and 
having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis 
charged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." 

8 " The ' Deserted Village' has an endearing locality, and introduces us to beings with whom the 
imagination contracts an intimate friendship. Fiction in poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her 
soft and enchanted resemblance; and this ideal beauty of nature has been seldom united with 80 
much sober fidelity as in the groups and scenery of the Deserted Village.' "—Campbell 



1760-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 621 

entered into engagements for writing his histories of Rome, Greece, and 
England. 

Two years after, he appeared the second time as a dramatic author, and 
with very great success. Dr. Johnson said of " She Stoops to Conquer," that 
he knew of no comedy for many years that had so much exhilarated an audi- 
ence, and had answered the great end of comedy — making an audience 
merry. One of his last publications was a " History of the Earth, and Ani- 
mated Nature, 1 ' which appeared in 1774, and for which he received the sum 
of eight hundred and fifty pounds ; but such was his improvidence that his 
money was gone almost as soon as received. A tale of distress would take 
from him his last penny. His affairs, in consequence, became very much 
deranged ; and his circumstances, preying upon his mind, are supposed to 
have accelerated his death, which occurred on the 4th of April, 1774. 

"Thus terminated the life of an admirable writer and estimable man at 
the early age of forty-five, when his powers were in full vigor, and much was 
to be expected from their exertion. The shock to his friends appears to have 
been great from the unexpected loss of one whose substantial virtues, with all 
his foibles and singularities, they had learned to value. Burke, on hearing it, 
burst into tears ; Sir Joshua Reynolds relinquished painting for the day, — a 
very unusual forbearance ; and Dr. Johnson, though little prone to exhibit 
strong emotions of grief, felt most sincerely on this occasion." ' Three months 
afterward he thus wrote to Boswell: "Of poor dear Dr. Goldsmith there is 
little to be told more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, 
I am afraid more violent from uneasiness of mind. He had raised money 
and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But 
let not his frailties be remembered: he was a very great man." 2 

To the merits of Goldsmith, as a writer, the testimony of critics almost 
innumerable might be adduced. But the following few lines from an admi- 
rable article by Sir Walter Scott, will suffice : " The wreath of Golds nith is 
unsullied; he wrote to exalt virtue and expose vice ; and he accomplished 
his task in a manner which raises him to the highest rank among British 
authors. We close his volume with a sigh, that such an author should have 
written so little from the stores of his own genius, and that he should have so 
prematurely been removed from the sphere of literature which he so highly 
adorned." 3 

1 Prior, vol. ii. p. 519. 

2 "Here Fancy's favorite, Goldsmith, sleeps; 
The Dunces smile, but Johnson weeps." 

St. James's Chronicle, April 7, 1774. 

S Head— the article on Goldsmith in the 3d vol. of Scott's Prose Works : also, another in the 57tli 
vol. of 0-uarterly Review: also life, in Mrs. Barbauld's "Lives of the British Novelists:" also, Life 
and Works by Prior, 6 vols., one of the most valuable contributions to English literature of the pre- 
sent century. In Boswell's Johnson, Goldsmith is frequently mentioned, but not in such a mannef 
as to do any justice to his character. How could it be expected from such a man ? When the work 
was first published, Burke, much displeased that Goldsmith should be so undervalued ! n it, remarked 
to a lady : " V/hat rational opinion, my dear madam, could you expect a lawyer to give of a poet ? ' 
Wilkes improved upon this, and remarked at a dinner, " A Scotch lawyer and an Irish poet I hold to 
be about as opposite as the antipodes." Sir Joshua Reynolds also expressed his decided dissent from 
Boswell's opinions ; and George Stevens, in his usual sarcastic spirit, remarked, " Why, sir, it is not 
unusual for a man who has much genius to be censured by one who has none." And Sir Walten 
Scott remarked, "I wonder why Boswell so often displays a malevolent feeling towards Golosmith. 
Rivalry for Johnson's good graces, perhaps." That Johnson's opinion was most favorable lo Gold- 
smiUi, Bosweu's own book testifies. Hear him : "Goldsmith was a man who, whatever ne wrote, 
did it better than any other man could do. He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey; and every 



622 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. 

ITALY. 

Far to the right where Apermine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ," 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, nor far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state ; 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies; 
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; 
While naught remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann*d, and lords without a slave ; 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child ; ' 

fc-<-».r he lived he would have deserved it more." Again : " Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet, 
a« a comic writer, or as an historian, he stands in the first class." 
x Either Sir Joshua Reynolds, or some other friend who communicated the story to 'm, calling one 



1760-1820.] goldsmith. 623 

Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 

While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind : 

As in those domes, where Cassars once bore sway, 

Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 

And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

The Traveler* 

FRANCE. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 1 
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze. 
And the gay grandsire, skilfd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land: 

d;»y at Goldsmith's lodgings, opened the door without ceremony, and discovered him, not in mei tar- 
tion, or in the throes of poetic birth, but in the boyish office of teaching a favorite dog to sit upi ^ht 
upon its haunches, or, as it is commonly said, to beg. Occasionally he glanced his eyes over hw 
desk, and occasionally shook his finger at the unwilling pupil, in order to make him retain his posi- 
tion; while on the page before him was written that couplet, with the ink of the second line still wet, 
from the description of Italy :— 

" By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child." 
The sentiment seemed so appropriate to the employment, that the visitor could not refrain from giv- 
ing vent to his surprise in a strain of banter, which was received with characteristic good humoi , 
and the admission at once made, that the amusement in which he had been engaged had given birth 
to the idea. 

l "I had some knowledge of music," says George Primrose, in the ' Vicar of Wakefield, '• with a 
tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I 
passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of tue French as were poor 
enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever 
I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, 1 played one of my most merry tunes and that 
procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day." 



624 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. 

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 1 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

The Traveller. 
BRITAIN. 

My genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd fresh from Nature's hand ; 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right above control, 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 2 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
'loo blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelfd. 

1 There is. perhaps, no couplet in English rhyme more perspicuously condensed than those two 
lines of ' The Traveller,' in which the author describes the at once nattering, vain, and happy cha- 
racter of the French."— Campbell. 

2 "We talked of Goldsmith's 'Traveller,' of which Dr. Johnson spoke highly; and, while I was 
helping him on with his greatcoat, he repeatedly quoted from it the character of the British nation 

Which he did with such energy that the tear started in his eye."—£oswell's Johnson. 



1760-1820.] goldsmith. 625 

Ferments anse, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 
Till over-wrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or phrensy tire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toild, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonord die. 



The Traveller, 



THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
Ine village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place • 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had leam'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow 'd : 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He wateh'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay 'd 
2 R 03 



626 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE 111. 

The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain 'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

The Deserted I iUaqe. 

AN ELEGT ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAME. 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor, — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please 

With manners wonderous winning; 
And never follow'd wicked ways, — 

Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size ; 
She never slumber'd in her pew, — 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has follow'd her, — 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead, 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 

For Kent-street well may say, 
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,-— 

She had not died to-day. 



1760-1820.] goldsmith. 627 

But Goldsmith's prose is no less charming than his poetry. There are, in 
his essays, entitled " The Citizen of the World," an ease and gracefulness of 
style, a chaste humor, a rich poetical fancy, and a nice observation of men 
and manners, that render them truly " a mine of lively and profound thought, 
happy imagery, and pure English." 1 

LIFE ENDEARED BY AGE. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of 
Jiving. Those dangers which, in the vigor of youth, we had 
learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow oJd. Our cau- 
tion increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the pre- 
vailing passion of the mind ; and the small remainder of life is 
taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a 
continued existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise 
are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies be- 
fore me, by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hide- 
ous. Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought 
no real felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt 
are stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet experience 
and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than either, 
dresses out the distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happi- 
ness, in long perspective, still beckons me to pursue, and, like a 
losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardor to 
continue the game. 

Whence, my friend, this increased love of life, which grows 
upon us with our years ? whence comes it, that we thus make 
greater efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it be- 
comes scarcely worth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to 
the preservation of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while 
she lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of every 
pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ? Life would be insup- 
portable to an old man who, loaded with infirmities, feared death 
no more than when in the vigor of manhood ; the numberless 
calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving 
every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to 
terminate the scene of misery ; but happily the contempt of derth 
forsakes him at a time when it could be only prejudicial, and life 
acquires an imaginary value in proportion as its reai value is no 
more. 

Our attachment to every object around us increases, in general, 

1 At a dinner at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, when some unkind remark was made of Goldsmith, John- 
son broke out warmly in his defence, and in the course of a spirited eulogium, said, "Is there a man, 
sir, now, who can pen an essay with such ease and elegance as Dr. Goldsmith ?" 

"The prose of Goldsmith is the model of perfection, and the standard of our language; to equai 
which the efforts of most would be vain, and to exceed it, every expectation folly."- Headtey. 



628 GOLDSMITH. [GEOllGE III. 

from the length of our acquaintance with it. " I would not choose,' ' 
says a French philosopher, " to see an old post pulled up with 
which I had been long acquainted." A mind long habituated to 
a certain set of objects insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; 
visits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. 
Hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of posses- 
sion ; they love the world and all that it produces ; they love life 
and all its advantages, not because it gives them pleasure, but be- 
cause they have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- 
manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the 
preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who 
came to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a 
majestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed 
him as follows : " Great father of China, behold a wretch, now 
eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age 
of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or 
without being even confronted by my accusers. I have now lived 
in solitude and in darkness for more than fifty years, and am 
grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with the splendor 
of that sun to which you have restored me, I have been wander- 
ing the streets to find some friend that would assist, or relieve, or 
remember me ; but my friends, my family, and relations are all 
dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me, then, O Chinvang, to wear 
out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; the walls 
of my dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most splendid 
palace ; I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except I 
spend the rest of my days where my youth was passed — in that 
prison from which you were pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all 
have for life. We are habituated to the prison, we look round 
with discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length 
of our captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The 
trees we have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity 
we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and imbittei 
our parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaintance ; the 
companion, as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amus- 
ing; its company pleases, yet for all this it is but little regarded. 
To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend ; 
its jests have been anticipated in former conversation ; it has nc 
new story to make us smile, no new improvement with which tc 
surprise, yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoyment, stiL 
we love it ; husband the wasting treasure with increased frugality, 
and feel all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, brave,- — an 
Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love 



1760-1S20.] GOLDSMITH. 629 

of the king, his master, which was equivalent to riches. Life 
opened all her treasures before him, and promised a long succes- 
sion of future happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, 
but was disgusted even in the beginning. He professed an aver- 
sion to living, was tired of walking round the same circle ; had 
tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every 
repetition. " If life be in youth so displeasing," cried he to him- 
self, " what will it appear when age comes on ? if it be at present 
indifferent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought imbit- 
tered every reflection ; till at last, with all the serenity of per- 
verted reason, he ended the debate with a pistol ! Had this self- 
deluded man been apprized that existence grows more desirable 
to us the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age with- 
out shrinking; he would have boldly dared to live, and served 
that society by his future assiduity which he basely injured by 

HIS desertion. atizen of the World, Letter UXIH. 

A CITY NIGHT-PIECE. 

The clock has just struck two ; the expiring taper rises and 
sinks in the socket ; the watchman forgets the hour in slumber ; 
the laborious and the happy are at rest ; and nothing wakes but 
meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more 
fills the destroying bowl ; the robber walks his midnight round ; 
and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person. 

Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, or 
xhe sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, 
where vanity, ever-changing, but a few hours past, walked before 
me — where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward 
child, seems hushed with her own importunities. 

What a gloom hangs all around ! The dying lamp feebly 
emits a }^ellow gleam : no sound is heard but of the chiming 
clock or the distant watch-dog : all the bustle of human pride is 
forgotten. An hour like this may well display the emptiness of 
human vanity. 

There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be 
made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, 
and leave a desert in its room. 

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, 
had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded, and, 
with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality ! 
Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some ; the sorrowful 
traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others ; and, as he be- 
holds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublu- 
nary possession. 

Here, he cries, stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds: 

53* 



630 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE IIL 

there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious rep- 
tile. Temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistin- 
guished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and avarice 
first made them feeble. The rewards of state were conferred on 
amusing, and not on useful members of society. Their riches 
and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, 
returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the 
defendants into undistinguished destruction. 

How few appear in those streets, which, but some few hours 
ago, were crowded ! And those who appear now no longer wear 
their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their 
misery. 

But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find 
a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? 
These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circum- 
stances are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are 
too great even for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather horror 
than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and 
others emaciated with disease. The world has disclaimed them : 
society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up 
to nakedness and hunger. These poor shivering females have 
once seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty. 1 

Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of 
wretches I cannot relieve ? Poor houseless creatures ! the world 
will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The 
slightest misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasiness 
of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and 
held up to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The 
poor weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of 
tyranny ; and every law which gives others security becomes an 
enemy to them. 

Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility ? 
or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse ? Tenderness 
without a capacity of relieving, only makes the man who feels it 
more wretched than the object which sues for assistance 

Citizen of the Worm, Lett CX VII 

l This idea is repeated in the " Deserted Village :"— 

" Ah ! turn thine eyes, 
Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn ; 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. 
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head." 



17G0-1820.] GOLDSMITH. 631 



SCENERY OF THE ALPS. 

Nothing can be finer or more exact than Mr. Pope's descrip- 
tion of a traveller straining up the Alps. Every mountain he 
comes to he thinks will be the last : he finds, however, an unex- 
pected hill rise before him ; and that being scaled, he finds the 
highest summit almost at as great a distance as before. Upon 
quitting the plain, he might have left a green and fertile soil, and 
a climate warm and pleasing. As he ascends, the ground assumes 
a more russet color, the grass becomes more mossy, and the 
weather more moderate. When he is still higher, the weather 
becomes more cold, and the earth more barren. In this dreary 
passage he is often entertained with a little valley of surprising 
verdure, caused by the reflected heat of the sun collected into a 
narrow spot on the surrounding heights. But it much more fre- 
quently happens that he sees only frightful precipices beneath, 
and lakes of amazing depth, from whence rivers are formed, and 
fountains derive their original. On those places next the highest 
summits, vegetation is scarcely carried on : here and there a few 
plants of the most hardy kind appear. The air is intolerably cold 
— either continually refrigerated with frosts, or disturbed with 
tempests. All the ground here wears an eternal covering of ice 
and snow, that seem continually accumulating. Upon emerging 
from this war of the elements, he ascends into a purer and serener 
region, where vegetation is entirely ceased — where the preci- 
pices, composed entirely of rocks, rises perpendicularly above 
him ; while he views beneath him all the combat of the elements, 
clouds at his feet, and thunders darting upwards, from their bo- 
soms below. A thousand meteors, which are never seen on the 
plain, present themselves ; circular rainbows, mock suns, the 
shadow of the mountain projected upon the body of the air, and 
the traveller's own image reflected as in a looking-glass upon the 
opposite cloud. 

History of the Earth and Animated Nature. 
HISTORY OF A POET's GARDEN. 

Of all men who form gay illusions of distant happiness, per 
haps a poet is the most sanguine. Such is the ardor of his hopes, 
that they often are equal to actual enjoyment ; and he feels more 
in expectance than actual fruition. I have often regarded a cha- 
racter of this kind with some degree of envy. A man possessed 
of such warm imagination commands all nature, and arrogates 
possessions of which the owner has a blunter relish. While life 
continues, the alluring prospect lies before him ; he travels in the 
pursuit with confidence, and resigns it only with his last breath. 



632 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. 

It is this happy confidence which gives life its true relish, and 
kotps up our spirits amidst every distress and disappointment. 
Hov much less would be done, if a man knew how little he can 
do ) How wretched a creature would he be, if he saw the end 
as well as the beginning of his projects ! He would have nothing 
left but to sit down in torpid despair, and exchange employment 
for actual calamity. 

I was led into this train of thinking upon lately visiting the 
beautiful Gardens of the late Mr. Shenstone ; who was himself a 
poei, and possessed of that warm imagination which made him 
ever foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness. Could he but 
have foreseen the end of all his schemes, for whom he was im- 
proving, and what changes his designs were to undergo, he would 
have scarcely amused his innocent life with what, for several 
years, employed him in a most harmless manner, and abridged his 
scanty fortune. As the progress of this improvement is a true 
picture of sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up my 
imagination, which, while I walked pensively along, suggested 
the following re very. 

As I was turning my back upon a beautiful piece of water en- 
livened with cascades and rock-work, and entering a dark walk 
by which ran a prattling brook, the Genius of the place appeared 
before me, but more resembling the God of Time, than him more 
peculiarly appointed to the care of gardens. Instead of shears, he 
bore a scythe ; and he appeared rather with the implements of 
husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having remem- 
bered this place in its pristine beauty, I could not help condoling 
witn him on its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the 
many alterations which had been made, and all for the worse ; of the 
many shades which had been taken away, of the bowers that were 
destroyed by neglect, and the hedge-rows that were spoiled by 
clipping. The Genius with a sigh received my condolement, and 
assured me, that he was equally a martyr to ignorance and taste, 
to refinement and rusticity. Seeing me desirous of knowing far- 
ther, he went on : 

"You see, in the place before you; the paternal inheritance of 
a poet ; and to a man content with a little, fully sufficient for his 
subsistence : but a strong imagination and a long acquaintance 
with the rich are dangerous foes to contentment. Our poet, in- 
stead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved to prepare for its future 
enjoyment ; and set about converting a place of profit into a scene 
of pleasure. This he at first supposed could be accomplished at 
a small expense ; and he was willing for a while to stint his in- 
come, to have an opportunity of displaying his taste. The im- 
provement in this manner went forward ; one beauty attained, led 
him to wish for some other ; but he still hoped that every emenda* 



1760-1820.] goldsmith. 633 

tion would be the last. It was now, therefore, found that the 
improvement exceeded the subsidy, that the place was grown too 
large and too fine for the inhabitant. But that pride which was 
once exhibited could not retire ; the garden was made for the owner, 
and though it was become unfit for him, he could not willingly 
resign it to another. Thus the first idea of its beauties contri- 
buting to the happiness of his life was found unfaithful ; so that, 
instead of looking within for satisfaction, he began to think of 
having recourse to the praises of those who came to visit his im- 
provement. 

" In consequence of this hope, which now took possession of 
his mind, the gardens were opened to the visits of every stranger; 
and the country flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and 
to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers of his taste left 
by no means such strong marks of their applause, as the envious 
did of their malignity. All the windows of his temples, and the 
walls of his retreats, were impressed with the characters of pro- 
faneness, ignorance, and obscenity ; his hedges were broken, his 
statues and urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was now, 
therefore, necessary to shut up the gardens once more, and to de- 
prive the public of that happiness, which had before ceased to be 
his own. 

"In this situation the poet continued for a time in the character 
of a jealous lover, fond of the beauty he keeps, but unable to sup- 
ply the extravagance of every demand. The garden by this time 
was completely grown and finished ; the marks of art were covered 
up by the luxuriance of nature ; the winding walks were grown 
dark ; the brook assumed a natural sylvage ; and the rocks were 
covered with moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the 
beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and his garden 
was obliged to be sold for the benefit of those who had contributed 
to its embellishment. 

" The beauties of the place had now for some time been cele- 
brated as well in prose as in verse ; and all men of taste wished 
for so envied a spot, where every urn was marked with the poet's 
pencil, and every walk awakened genius and meditation. The 
first purchaser was one Mr. Truepenny, a button-maker, who was 
possessed of three thousand pounds, and was willing also to be 
possessed of taste and genius. 

" As the poet's ideas were for the natural wildness of the land- 
scape, the button-maker's were for the more regular productions 
of art. He conceived, perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button 
to be of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought to obtain 
in a landscape. Be this as it will, he employed the shears to 
some purpose ; he clipped up the hedges, cut down the gloomy 



634 GOLDSMITH. [GEORGE III. 

walks, made vistas upon the stables and hogsties, and showed his 
friends that a man of taste should always be doing. 

" The next candidate for taste and genius was a captain of a 
ship, who bought the garden because the former possessor could 
find nothing more to mend ; but unfortunately he had taste too. 
His great passion lay in building, in making Chinese temples, 
and cage-work summer-houses. As the place before had an ap- 
pearance of retirement and inspired meditation, he gave it a more 
peopled air ; every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or a 
temple ; the improvement was converted into a little city, and it 
only wanted inhabitants to give it the air of a village in the East 
Indies. 

" In this manner, in less than ten years, the improvement has 
gone through the hands of as many proprietors, who were all 
willing to have taste, and to show their taste too. As the place 
had received its best finishing from the hand of the first possessor, 
so every innovator only lent a hand to do mischief. Those parts 
which were obscure, have been enlightened ; those walks which 
led naturally, have been twisted into serpentine windings. The 
color of the flowers of the field is not more various than the variety 
of tastes that have been employed here, and all in direct contra- 
diction to the original aim of the first improver. Could the origi- 
nal possessor but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would he 
look upon his favorite spot again ! He would scarcely recollect a 
dryad or a wood-nymph of his former acquaintance, and might 
perhaps find himself as much a stranger in his own plantation, as 
in the deserts of Siberia." 

Essay, XXXII. 

The following paragraph is one of those gems in English Prose Literature, 
of which few authors, if any. afford a greater number than Goldsmith. It is 
in the latter part of a review, as severe as his good-nature would allow, of 
Barrett's translation of Ovid's Epistles, to be found in the Critical Review of 
1759. 

ALL CANNOT BE POETS. 

But let not the reader imagine we can find pleasure in thus 
exposing absurdities which are too ludicrous for serious reproof. 
While we censure as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely 
wish that those whose greatest sin is, perhaps, the venial one of 
writing bad verses, would regard their failure in this respect as 
we do, not as faults, but foibles : they may be good and useful 
members of society without being poets. The regions of taste can 
be travelled only by a few, and even those often find indifferent 
accommodation by the way. Let such as have not got a pass- 
port from nature, be content with happiness, and leave to the 
poet the unrivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and his 
jam 



1760-1820.] hlme. 635 



DAVID HUME. 1711—1776. 

David Hume, the celebrated Scotch historian, was born in Edinburgh in 
1711. He was designed for the law, but having no inclination for it, he ap- 
plied himself to mercantile pursuits, and in 1734 became clerk to a house in 
Bristol. He did not, however, continue long in that line, owing to his strong 
propensity to literature. He says in his autobiography, " 1 went over to 
France with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat, and I then 
laid that plan of life which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I re- 
solved, to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune ; to 
maintain, unimpaired, my independency ; and to regard every object as con- 
temptible except the improvement of my talents in literature." 

In 1738 be published his "Treatise of Human Nature," a metaphysical 
work, which met with a very indifferent reception In 1742 appeared his 
" Moral Essays," which were a little better received. During the next ten 
years he published his " Inquiry concerning Human Understanding," " Politi- 
cal Discourses," and " Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals." While 
many of the principles of these works are exceptionable, they are, as composi- 
tions, a model of a perspicuous and a highly finished style. In 1754 he pub- 
lished the first volume of his " History of England," which he commenced 
with the House of Stuart " The History of the House of Tudor" followed in 
1759, and the two volumes containing the earlier English History, which com- 
pleted the work, in 1761. While this work was in progress, he gave to the 
world his " Natural History of Religion," which was attacked with just se- 
verity by Warburton and Hurd. After enjoying one or two offices of honor 
and profit, he retired to his native country in 1769, and died in 1776. 

As an author, Hume is to be viewed in the three characters of Historian, 
Political Economist, and Philosopher. " In History he was the first to divert 
attention from wars, treaties, and successions, to the living progress of the 
people, in all that increases their civilization and their happiness ;" and 
notwithstanding his "History of England" is disfigured by evident par- 
tiality, and lacks in many places that accuracy which is the first requisite 
in historical compositions, yet, with all the faults of its matter, its purely 
literary merits are so great, that, as a classical and popular work, it has 
hitherto encountered no rival. 

As a Political Economist, " his triumphs are those which, in the present day, 
stand forth with the greatest prominence and lustre. In no long time, a hun- 
dred years will have elapsed from the day when Hume told the world, what 
the legislature of England is now declaring, that national exclusiveness in 
trade was as foolish as it was wicked ; that no nation could profit by stopping 
the natural flood of commerce between itself and the rest of the world; that 
commercial restrictions deprive the nations of the earth 'of that free commu 
nication and exchange, which the Author of the world has intended by giving 
them soils, climates, and geniuses, so different from each other;' and that, 
like the healthy circulation of the blood in living bodies, free trade is the 
vital principle by which the nations of the earth are to become united in one 
harmonious whole." * 

As a Philosopher, though acute and ingenious, he is not profound. He was 
the first to make Utility the foundation of moral obligation, which, as a theory 

1 Read— the "Life and Correspondence of DaviS Hume," by John Hill Burton, Esq., 2 vols. 8v<j 
Edinburgh, 1840— a very valuable cuiitriijuUon lo the biogiaphicfj literature of the present century. 



C>36 HUME. [GEORGE III. 

is absurd, and can never be a guide to general duty; for none but Omniscience 
can know what will conduce to general utility; and, therefore, though in 
many cases it may be a motive, it can never be the ultimate motive for 
human action. The Will of God is, and ever must be, the only true founda- 
tion of all moral obligation, for the Creator alone can know what is^best for 
his creatures. It is, therefore, from his most defective theory in morals, but 
more especially from his infidelity, that, in my estimation, Hume hardly de- 
serves the name of a Philosopher, inasmuch as he neglected all search after 
the highest wisdom — the "wisdom from above;" and exhibited none of that 
docility upon the subject of religion, which he himself would be the first to 
require of any one who wished to make attainments in any other science : 
and most deeply is it to be lamented, that a man of such a mind should not 
have had, upon his death-bed, the consolations of the Christian religion. 1 

ON DELICACY OF TASTE. 

Nothing- is so improving to the temper as the study of the beau- 
ties either of poetry, eloquence, music, or painting. They give a 
certain elegance of sentiment to which the rest of mankind are 
strangers. The emotions which they excite are soft and tender. 
They draw off the mind from the hurry of business and interest; 
cherish reflection ; dispose to tranquillity ; and produce an agree- 
able melancholy, which, of all dispositions of the mind, is the best 
suited to love and friendship. 

In the second place, a delicacy of taste is favorable to love and 
friendship, by confining our choice to few people, and making us 
indifferent to the company and conversation of the greater part of 
men. You will seldom find that mere men of the world, what- 
ever strcng sense they may be endowed with, are very nice in 
distinguishing characters, or in marking those insensible differ- 
ences and gradations which make one man preferable to another. 
Any one that has competent sense is sufficient for their entertain- 
ment: they talk to him of their pleasure and affairs with the same 
frankness that they would to another ; and finding many who are 
fit to supply his place, they never feel any vacancy or want in 
his absence. But, to make use of the allusion of a celebrated 
French author, the judgment may be compared to a clock or 
watch where the most ordinary machine is sufficient to tell the 
hours, but the most elaborate alone can point out the minutes and 
seconds, and distinguish the smallest differences of time, One 
that has well digested his knowledge, both of books and men, has 
little enjoyment but in the company of a few select companions. 

1 "I mentioned to Dr. Johnson that David Hume's persisting in his infidelity when he was dying 
shocked me much." Johnson. " Why should it shock you, sir ? Hume owned he had never read the 
New Testament with attention. Here, then, was a man who had been at no pains to inquire 
Into the truth of religion, and had continually turned his mind the other way. It was not to be ex- 
pected the prospect of death would alter his way of thinking, unless God should send an angel to set 
mm right. He had a vanity in being thought easy." Croker's Bo swell, Svo, p. 545. See also, re- 
marks upon Hume's deisn. at pp S8, 151, and 174 of the same book. 



1760-1820.] hu:,ie. 637 

He feels too sensibly how much all the rest of mankind fall short 
of the notions which he has entertained ; and his affections being 
thus confined within a narrow circle, no wonder he carries them 
further than if they were more general and undistinguished. The 
gayety and frolic of a bottle companion improves with him into a 
solid friendship ; and the ardors of a youthful appetite become an 
elegant passion. 

ON SIMPLICITY AND REFINEMENT. 

It is a certain rule that wit and passion are entirely incompati- 
ble. When the affections are moved, there is no place for the 
imagination. The mind of man being naturally limited, it is im- 
possible that all its faculties can operate at once ; and the more 
an) T one predominates, the less room is there for the others to exert 
their vigor. For this reason a greater degree of simplicity is re- 
quired in all compositions where men, and actions, and passions 
are painted, than in such as consist of reflections and observations. 
And, as the former species of writing is the more engaging and 
beautiful, one may safely, upon this account, give the preference 
to the extreme of simplicity above that of refinement. 

We may also observe, that those compositions which \a e read 
the often est, and which every man of taste has got by heart, have 
the recommendation of simplicity, and have nothing surprising in 
the thought when divested of that elegance of expression and har- 
mony of numbers with which it is clothed. If the merit of the 
composition lie in a point of wit, it may strike at first ; but the 
mind anticipates the thought in the second perusal, and is no 
longer affected by it. When I read an epigram of Martial, the 
first line recalls the whole ; and I have no pleasure in repeating 
to myself what I know already. But each line, each word in 
Catullus, has its merit ; and I am never tired with the perusal of 
him. It is sufficient to run over Cowley once ; but Parnell, after 
the fiftieth reading, is as fresh as the first. Besides, it is with 
books as with women, where a certain plainness of manner and 
of dress is more engaging than that glare of paint, and airs, and 
apparel, which may dazzle the eye, but reaches not the affections. 
Terence is a modest and bashful beauty, to whom we grant every 
thing, because he assumes nothing; and whose purity and nature 
make a durable though not a violent impression on us. 

ON THE MIDDLE STATION OF LIFE. 

The moral of the following fable will easily discover itself with- 
out my explaining it. One rivulet meeting another, with whom 
he had been long united in strictest amity, with noisy haughtiness 
and disdain thus bespoke him : — " What, brother ! still in the 

54 



638 HUME. [GEORGE III". 

same state ! Still low and creeping ! Are you not ashamed 
when you behold me, who, though lately in a like condition with 
you, am now become a great river, and shall shortly be able to 
rival the Danube or the Rhine, provided those friendly rains con- 
tinue which have favored my banks, but neglected yours ?" 
" Very true," replies the humble rivulet, " you are now, indeed, 
swollen to a great size ; but methinks you are become withal some- 
what turbulent and muddy. I am contented with my low condi- 
tion and my purity." 

Instead of commenting upon this fable, I shall take occasion 
from it to compare the different stations of life, and to persuade 
such of my readers as are placed in the middle station to be satis- 
fied with it, as the most eligible of all others. These form the 
most numerous rank of men that can be supposed susceptible of 
philosoph}^, and therefore all discourses of morality ought princi- 
pally to be addressed to them. The great are too much immersed 
in pleasure, and the poor too much occupied in providing for the 
necessities of life, to hearken to the calm voice of reason. The 
middle station, as it is most happy in many respects, so particu- 
larly in this, that a man placed in it can, with the greatest leisure, 
consider his own happiness, and reap a new enjoyment, from com- 
paring his situation with that of persons above or below him. 

Agur's prayer is sufficiently noted — " Two things have I re- 
quired of thee ; deny me them not before I die : Remove far from 
me vanity and lies ; give me neither poverty nor riches ; feed me 
with food convenient for me, lest I be full and deny thee, and say, 
who is the Lord ? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name 
of my God in vain." The middle station is here justly recom- 
mended, as affording the fullest security for virtue ; and I may 
also add, that it gives opportunity for the most ample exercise of 
it, and furnishes employment for every good quality which we 
can possibly be possessed of. Those who are placed among the 
lower ranks of men have little opportunity of exerting any other 
virtue besides those of patience, resignation, industry, and in- 
tegrity. Those who are advanced into the higher stations, have 
full employment for their generosity, humanity, affability, and 
charity. When a man lies betwixt these two extremes, he can 
exert the former virtues towards his superiors, and the latter 
towards his inferiors. Every moral quality which the human soul 
is susceptible of, may have its turn, and be called up to action ; 
and a man may, after this manner, be much more certain of his 
progress m virtue, than where his good qualities lie dormant and 
without employment. 

But there is another virtue that seems principally to lie among 
equals ; and is, for that reason, chiefly calculated for the middle 
station of life. This virtue is friendship. I believe most men of 



1760-1820.] EARL OF CHATHAM. 639 

generous tempers are apt to envy the great, when they consider 
the large opportunities such persons have of doing good to their 
fellow-creatures, and of acquiring the friendship and esteem of 
men of merit. They make no advances in vain, and are not 
obliged to associate with those whom they have little kindness 
for, like people of inferior stations, who are subject to have their 
proffers of friendship rejected even where they would be most 
fond of placing their affections. But though the great have more 
facility in acquiring friendships, they cannot be so certain of 
the sincerity of them as men of a lower rank, since the favors they 
bestow may acquire them flattery, instead of good-will and kind- 
ness. It has been very judiciously remarked, that we attach our- 
selves more by the services we perform than by those we receive, 
and that a man is in danger of losing his friends by obliging them 
too far. I should therefore choose to lie in the middle way, and 
to have my commerce with my friend varied both by obligations 
given and received. I have too much pride to be willing that all 
the obligations should lie on my side, and should be afraid that, if 
they ail lay on his, he would also have too much pride to be 
entirely easy under them, or have a perfect complacency in my 
company. 



WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM. 1708—1778. 

Of the eventfal life of this illustrious statesman, it would be impossible here 
to give any adequate view. From the time that he delivered his maiden 
speech in parliament, on the 29th of April, 1736, to the day when he fell 
senseless in the House of Lords, April 7, 1778, while, in his own fervid 
eloquence, he was addressing that body on the state of the nation, his whole 
life is inseparably connected with every great event in his country's history. 
No single individual for forty years filled so large a space in the public eye. 

It is deeply to be regretted that we have so few of his writings, and that 
no correct reports of his speeches in parliament have come down to us. The 
art of reporting with rapidity and accuracy, so familiar to us, of this day, was 
then not known. But from the encomiums which his speeches received from 
his contemporaries, without distinction of party, they must have been of the 
highest order of eloquence. Americans may well remember him with grati 
tude, for they had no abler defender of their rights in revolutionary times, on 
either side of the Atlantic. With that " abominable sentiment." our country 
3»ight or wrong, this great man had no sympathy; for he never hesitated to 
rebuke, in the severest terms, his own country, when he saw she was in the 
way of wrong-doing. 

The most interesting relic that we have of this greatest of statesmen, is his 
"Letters to his Nephew, Thomas Pitt, (afterwards Lord Camelford,) then at 
Cambridge." No volume of equal size contains more valuable instructions 
f>r a young student than these letters. They exhibit " a great orator, states, 
.-ian, and patriot, in one of the most interesting relations of private society 
Not, as in the cabinet or the senate, enforcing by a vigorous ana commanding 



640 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. 

eloquence, those counsels to which his country owed her pre-eminence and 
glory ; but implanting, with parental kindness into the mind of an ingenuous 
youth, seeds of wisdom and virtue, which ripened into full maturity in the 
character of a most accomplished man : directing him to the acquisition of 
knowledge, as the best instrument of action; teaching him, by the cultivation 
of his reason, to strengthen and establish in his heart those principles of moral 
rectitude which were congenial to it; and, above all, exhorting him to regu- 
late the whole conduct of his life by the predominant influence of gratitude 
and obedience to God, as the only sure groundwork of every human duty." 

"What parent, anxious for the character and success of a son, would not, 
in all that related to his education, gladly have resorted to the advice of such 
a man ? What youthful spirit, animated by any desire of future excellence, 
and looking for the gratification of that desire, in the pursuits of honorable 
ambition, or in the consciousness of an upright, active, and useful life, would 
not embrace with transport any opportunity of listening on such a subject to 
the lessons of Lord Chatham? They are here before him: not delivered 
with the authority of a preceptor, or a parent, but tempered by the affection 
of a friend towards a disposition and character well entitled to such regard/' 1 



STUDY OF THE CLASSICS RECOMMENDED. 

Bath, October 12, 1751. 
My Dear Nephew: 

As I have been moving about from place to place, your letter 
reached me here, at Bath, but very lately, after making a con- 
siderable circuit to find me. I should have otherwise, my dear 
child, returned you thanks for the very great pleasure you have 
given me, long before now. The very good account you give me 
of your studies, and that delivered in very good Latin, for youi 
time, has filled me with the highest expectation of your future 
improvements : I see the foundations so well laid, that I do net 
make the least doubt but you will become a perfect good scholar ; 
and have the pleasure and applause that will attend the several 
advantages hereafter, in the future course of your life, that you 
can only acquire now by your emulation and noble labors in the 
pursuit of learning, and of every acquirement that is to make you 
superior to other gentlemen. I rejoice to hear that you have 
begun Homer's Iliad ; and have made so great a progress in Vir- 
gil. I hope you taste and love those authors particularly. You 
cannot read them too much : they are not only the two greatest 
poets, but they contain the finest lessons for your age to imbibe : 
lessons of honor, courage, disinterestedness, love of truth, com- 
mand of temper, gentleness of behavior, humanity, and, in one 
word, virtue in its true signification. Go on, my dear nephew, 
and drink as deep as you can of these divine springs : the pleasure 
of the draught is equal at least to the prodigious advantages of it 
to the heart and morals. 

1 Lord Grenville's Preface to the Letters. Read also, Rev. Francis Thackeray's "History of the 
Rt. Hon William Pitt," 2 vols. 4to. 



1760-18*30.] EARL OF CHATHAM. 641 

I shall be highly pleased to heai from you, and to know what 
authors give you most pleasure. I desire my service to Mr. 
Leech : pray tell him I will write to him soon about your studies. 
I am, with the greatest affection, 
My dear child, 

Your loving uncle. 



GENERAL ADVICE TO THE YOUTHFUL STUDENT. 

Bath, January 14, 1754. 
Mi Dear Nephew : 

You will hardly have read over one very long letter from me 
before you are troubled with a second. I intended to have writ 
soon, but I do it the sooner on account of your letter to your aunt, 
which she transmitted to me here. If any thing, my dear boy, 
could have happened to raise you higher in my esteem, and to 
endear you more to me, it is the amiable abhorrence you feel for 
the scene of vice and folly, (and of real misery and perdition, un- 
der the false notion of pleasure and spirit,) which has opened to 
you at your college, and at the same time, the manly, brave, gene- 
rous, and wise resolution and true spirit, with which you resisted 
and repulsed the first attempts upon a mind and heart, I thank 
God, infinitely too firm and noble, as well as too elegant and en- 
lightened, to be in any danger of yielding to such contemptible 
and wretched corruptions. You charm me with the description 
of Mr. Wheler, 1 and while you say you could adore him, I could 
adore you for the natural, genuine love of virtue, which speaks in 
all you feel, say, or do. As to your companions, let this be your 
rule. Cultivate the acquaintance with Mr. Wheler which you 
have so fortunately begun : and, in general, be sure to associate 
with men much older than yourself: scholars whenever you can : 
but always with men of decent and honorable lives. As their age 
and learning, superior both to your own, must necessarily, in good 
sense, and in the view of acquiring knowledge from them, entitle 
them to all deference, and submission of your own lights to theirs, 
you will particularly practise that first and greatest rule for pleas- 
ing in conversation, as well as for drawing instruction and im- 
provement from the company of one's superiors in age and know- 
ledge, namely, to be a patient, attentive, and w r ell-bred hearer, and 
to answer with modesty: to deliver your own opinions sparingly 
and with proper diffidence ; and if you are forced to desire farther 
information or explanation upon a point, to do it with proper apo- 
logies for the trouble you give : or if obliged to differ, to do it 
with all possible candor, and an unprejudiced desire to find and 

1 The Rev. John Wheler, prebendary of Westminster. The friendship formed between this gentle- 
man and Lord Camelford at so early a period of their lives, was founded in mutual esteem, and 20a- 
tinudd uninterrupted till Lord Camelford's death. 

2 S S4» 



642 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. 

ascertain truth, with an entire indifference to the side on which 
that truth is to be found. There is Jikewise a particular attention 
required to contradict with good manners ; such as, begging par- 
don, begging leave to doubt, and suchlike phrases. Pythagoras 
enjoined his scholars an absolute silence for a long novitiate. I 
am far from approving such a taciturnity : but I highly recom- 
mend the end and intent of Pythagoras's injunction ; which is to 
dedicate the first parts of life more to hear and learn, in order to 
collect materials, out of which to form opinions founded on proper 
lights and well-examined sound principles, than to be presuming, 
prompt, and flippant in hazarding one's own slight, crude notions 
of things ; and thereby exposing the nakedness and emptiness of 
the mind, like a house opened to company before it is fitted either 
with necessaries, or any ornaments for their reception and enter- 
tainment. And not only will this disgrace follow from such 
temerity and presumption, but a more serious danger is sure to 
ensue, that is, the embracing errors for truths, prejudices for prin- 
ciples ; and when that is once done, (no matter how vainly and 
weakly,) the adhering perhaps to false and dangerous notions, 
only because one has declared for them, and submitting, for life, 
the understanding and conscience to a yoke of base and servile 
prejudices, vainly taken up and obstinately retained. This will 
never be your danger; but I thought it not amiss to offer these 
reflections to your thoughts. As to your manner of behaving 
towards these unhappy young gentlemen you describe, let it be 
manly and easy ; decline their parties with civility ; retort their 
raillery with raillery, always tempered with good breeding : if 
they banter your regularity, order, decency, and love of study, 
banter in return their neglect of them ; and venture to own frankly, 
that you came to Cambridge to learn what you can, not to follow 
what they are pleased to call pleasure. In short, let your exter- 
nal behavior to them be as full of politeness and ease as your 
inward estimation of them is full of pity, mixed with contempt. 
I come now to the part of the advice I have to offer to you, which 
most nearly concerns your welfare, and upon which every good 
and honorable purpose of your life will assuredly turn ; I mean 
the keeping up in your heart the true sentiments of religion. If 
*ou are not right towards God, you can never be so towards man : 
e noblest sentiment of the human breast is here brought to the 
test. Is gratitude in the number of a man's virtues? If it be, the 
highest benefactor demands the warmest returns of gratitude, love, 
and praise : Ingratum qui dixerit, omnia dixit. 1 If a man wants 
this virtue where there are infinite obligations to excite and quicken 
it, he will be likely to want all others towards his fellow-creatures. 



1 Jie who pronounces one ungrateful, has i-aid every thing. 



1760-1820.] EARL OF CHATHAM. 643 

whose utmost gifts are poor compared to those he dally leceives 
at the hands of his never-failing Almighty Friend. "Remember 
thy Creator in the days of thy youth," is big with the deepest 
wisdom : The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom ; 
and, an upright heart, that is understanding. This is eternall} 
true, whether the wits and rakes of Cambridge allow it or not : 
nay, I must add of this religious wisdom, " Her ways are ways of 
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace," whatever your young 
gentlemen of pleasure think of a tainted health and battered con- 
stitution. Hold fast therefore by this sheet-anchor of happiness, 
Religion ; you will often want it in the times of most danger — 
the storms and tempests of life. Cherish true religion. Remem- 
ber the essence of religion is, a heart void of offence towards God 
and man; not subtle speculative opinions, but an active vital 
principle of faith. 

Go on, my dear child, in the admirable dispositions you have 
towards all that is right and good, and make yourself the love and 
admiration of the world ! I have neither paper nor words to tell 
you how tenderly 

I am yours. 



OUR OWN REASON AND OTHERS EXPERIENCE, TO BE USED. 

Bath, February 3, 1754. 
Nothing can, or ought to give me a higher satisfaction, than the 
obliging manner in which my dear nephew receives my most sin- 
cere and affectionate endeavors to be of use to him. You much 
overrate the obligation, whatever it be, which youth has to those 
who have trod the paths of the world before them, for their friendly 
advice how to avoid the inconveniences, dangers, and evils, which 
they themselves may have run upon, for want of such timely 
warnings, and to seize, cultivate, and carry forward towards per- 
fection, those advantages, graces, virtues, and felicities, which 
they may have totally missed, or stopped short in the generous 
pursuit. To lend this helping hand to those who are beginning 
to tread the slippery way, seems, at best, but an office of com- 
mon humanity to all ; but to withhold it from one we truly love, 
and whose heart and mind bear every genuine mark of the 
very soil proper for all the amiable, manly, and generous virtues 
to take root, and bear their heavenly fruit ; inward, conscious 
peace, fame among men, public love, temporal, and eternal hap- 
piness ; to withhold it, I say, in such an instance, would deserve 
the worst of names. I am greatly pleased, my dear young friend, 
that you do me the justice to believe I do not mean to impose anv 
yoke of authority upon your understanding and conviction. I 



644 EARL OF CHATHAM. [GEORGE III. 

wisL to warn, admonish, instruct, enlighten, and convince your 
reastn; and so determine your judgment to right things, when 
you shall be made to see that they are right ; not to overbear, and 
impel you to adopt any thing before you perceive it to be right or 
wrong, by the force of authority. I hear with great pleasure, that 
Locke lay before you, when you writ last to me ; and I like the 
observation that you make from him, that we must use our own 
reason, not that of another, if we would deal fairly by ourselves, 
and hope to enjoy a peaceful and contented conscience. This 
precept is truly worthy of the dignity of rational natures. But 
here, my dear child, let me offer one distinction to you, and it is 
of much moment ; it is this :_ Mr. Locke's precept is applicable 
only to such opinions as regard moral or religious obligations, and 
which, as such, our own consciences alone can judge and deter- 
mine for ourselves. Matters of mere expediency, that affect neither 
honor, morality, or religion, were not in that great and wise man's 
view : such are the usages, forms, manners, modes, proprieties, 
decorums, and all those numberless ornamental little acquire- 
ments, and genteel well-bred attentions, which constitute a proper, 
graceful, amiable, and noble behavior. In matters of this kind, I 
am sure, your own reason, to which I shall always refer you, will 
at once tell you, that you must, at first, make use of the experi- 
ence of others : in effect, see with their eyes, or not be able to see 
at all ; for the ways of the world, as to its usages and exterior 
manners, as well as to all things of expediency and prudential 
considerations, a moment's reflection will convince a mind as right 
as yours, must necessarily be to inexperienced youth, with ever 
so fine natural parts, a terra incognita. 1 As you would not there- 
fore attempt to form notions of China or Persia but from those who 
have travelled those countries, and the fidelity and sagacity of 
whose relations you can trust ; so will you, as little, I trust, pre- 
maturely form notions of your own, concerning that usage of the 
world (as it is called) into which you have not yet travelled, and 
which must be long studied and practised, before it can be tolera- 
bly well known. I can repeat nothing to you of so infinite conse- 
quence to your future welfare, as to conjure you not to be hasty 
in taking up notions and opinions : guard your honest and ingenu- 
ous mind against this main danger of youth. With regard to all 
things that appear not to your reason, after due examination, evi- 
dent duties of honor, morality, or religion, (and in all such as do, 
let your conscience and reason determine your notions and con- 
duct,) in all other matters, I say, be slow to form opinions, keep 
your mind in a candid state of suspense, and open to full convic- 
'.ion when you shall procure it, using in the mean time the expe- 

1 An unknown land. 



1760-1820.] BLACKSTOSTE. 645 

rience of a friend you can trust, tlie sincerity of -whose advice you 
will try and prove by your own experience hereafter, when more 
years shall have given it to you. I have been longer upon this 
head, than I hope there was any occasion for : but the great im- 
portance of the matter, and my warm wishes for your welfare, 
figure, and happiness, have drawn it from me. 
My dear Nephew, 

Ever affectionately . 

Yoi ?s. 



SLR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE. 1723—1780. 

This eminent civilian was born in London, in July, 1723. His . ather was 
a silk-mercer, and the fortune he had acquired in the honorable } ursuits of 
trade, was sufficient to enable him to afford his son every advantage of edu- 
cation and scholarship. On leaving the University of Oxford, having selected 
the law as his profession, he entered the Middle Temple, on which occasion 
he wrote the sprightly and beautiful lines entitled "The Lawyer's Farewell 
to bis Muse."' In due time he was called to the bar, but after seven years of 
patient and vain expectance, meeting with but little success, he returned to 
Oxford, with the intention of living on his fellowship. Having, '-owever, 
obtained an appointment to the law professorship in the university, be so dis- 
tinguished himself by the leeuires he delivered, that he resumed the practice 
of his profession with a success proportioned to his great abilities ari 1 learn- 
ing. In 1765 he published his celebrated " Commentaries on the 1 iws of 
England," than which few books have exerted a wider influence, it bi ngone 
of the first works read by every student of the law, and the one to which, 
perhaps, he makes the most frequent reference through the whole cc vrse of 
his professional life. In 1770. Blackstone was made one of the judges ff the 
Court of Common Pleas, which situation he held till his death, in 178C 

THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. 

As by some tyrant's stern command, 
A wretch forsakes his native land, 
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam 
An endless exile from his home ; 
Pensive he treads the destined way, 
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay ; 
Till on some neighboring mountain's brew 
He stops, and turns his eyes below ; 
Then, melting at the well-known view, 
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu ; 
So I. thus doom d from thee to part, 
Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art, 
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, 
Oft stop, and often look behind. 

Companion of my tender age, 
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, 



646 BLACKSrONE. [GEORGE IH. 

rt)W blithesome were we wont to rove 

By verdant hill or shady grove, 

Where fervent bees, with humming voice, 

Around the honey "d oak rejoice, 

And aged elms with awful bend 

In long cathedral walks extend ! 

Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods, 

Cheer 'd by the warbling of the woods. 

How bless'd my days, my thoughts how free 

In sweet society with thee ! 

Then all was joyous, all was young, 

And years unheeded roll'd along: 

But now the pleasing dream is o'er, 

Those scenes must charm me now no more ; 

Lost to the fields, and torn from you. — 

Farewell ! — a long, a last adieu. 

Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, 
To smoke, and crowds, and cities, draw : 
There selfish faction rules the day, 
And pride and avarice throng the way ; 
Diseases taint the murky air, 
And midnight conflagrations glare ; 
Loose revelry and riot bold 
In frighted streets their orgies hold ; 
Or, where in silence all is drown'd, 
Fell Murder walks his lonely round ; 
No room for peace, no room for you, 
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu ! 

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 
Nor all the art of Addison, 
Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, 
Nor Milton's mighty self, must please : 
Instead of thee, a formal band 
In furs and coifs a. nund me stand; 
With sounds uncouth and accents dry, 
That grate the soul ol harmony : 
Each pedant sage unlocks his store 
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore ; 
And points with tottering hand the ways 
That lead me to the thorny maze. 

There, in a winding close retreat, 
Is justice doonrd to fix her seat ; 
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, 
She keeps the wondering world in awe ; 
And there, from vulgar sight retired, 
Like eastern queens, is more admired. 

O let me pierce the secret shade 
Where dwells the venerable maid ! 
There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 
The guardian of Britannia's law; 
Unfold with joy her sacred page, 
Th' united boast of many an age ; 
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears 
The wisdom of a thousand years. 
In that pure spring the bottom view, 
Clear, deep, and regularly true ; 



1760-1820.] johnson. £47 

And other doctrines thence imbibe 
Than lurk within the sordid scribe ; 
Observe how parts with parts unite 
In one harmonious rule of right ; 
See countless wheels distinctly tend 
By various laws to one great end : 
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul 
Pervades and regulates the whole. 

Then welcome business, welcome st/ife 
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, 
The visage wan, the purblind sight, 
The toil by day, the lamp at night, 
The tedious forms, the solemn prate, 
The pert dispute, the dull debate, 
The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, — 
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all ! 
Thus though my noon of life be past, 
Yet let my setting sun, at last, 
Find out the still, the rural cell, 
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell ! 
There let me taste the homefelt bliss 
Of innocence and inward peace ; 
Untainted by the guilty bribe, 
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe ; 
No orphan's cry to wound my ear ; 
My honor and my conscience clear ; 
Thus may I calmly meet my end, 
Thus to the grave in peace descend. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 1709—1784. 

Samttel Johnson, the Corypheus of English Literature of the eighteenth 
century, was born at Litchfield,' in Staffordshire, September 7, 1709, and was 
educated at Pembroke College, Oxford. He gave early proof of a vigorous 
understanding and of a great fondness for knowledge ; but poverty compelled 
him to leave the university, after being there three years, without taking a 
degree, and he returned to Litchfield in the autumn of 1731, destitute, and 
wholly undetermined what plan of life to pursue. His father, who had been 
a bookseller, and who had become insolvent, died in December, and in the 
July following, Johnson accepted the situation of usher of the grammar-school 
at Market-Bosworth, in Leicestershire. For this situation, however, he soon 
felt himself utterly unqualified by means of his natural disposition. Though 
his scholarship was ample, he wanted that patience to bear with dulness and 
waywardness, those kind and urbane manners to win love and respect, that 
tact in controlling and governing youth, and that happy manner of illustrating 
difficulties and imparting knowledge, which are as essential as high literary 
attainments to form the perfect schoolmaster. No wonder, therefore, that h« 
quitted the high vocation in disgust. His scholars, doubtless, were quite as 
glad to get rid of him as he was of them. Non omnes omnibus. 

1 Hence he has been frequently termed "The Sage o" Litchfield." 



6L& JOHNSON. [GEORGE HI. 

The next year he obtained temporary employment from a bookseller at 
Birmingham, and soon after, entered into an engagement with Mr. Cave, the 
editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, to write for that periodical. This, how- 
ever, was not sufficient to support him, but Cupid happily came to his assist- 
ance ; for he fell in love with a Mrs. Porter, a widow of little more than 
double her lover's age, and possessed of eight hundred pounds. They were 
married on the 9th of July, 1736, and soon after, Johnson took a large house 
near Litchfield, and opened an academy for classical education. But the plan 
failed, and he went to London, and engaged himself as a regular contributor 
to the Gentleman's Magazine. Here he shortly produced his admirable poem 
entitled " London," in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal. For it, he re- 
ceived from Dodsley ten guineas ; it immediately attracted great attention, and 
Pope, as soon as he read it, said, " The author, whoever he is, will not be long 
concealed." His tragedy of " Irene," produced about the same time, was, as 
regards stage success, a total failure, though, like the Cato of Addison, it is 
full of noble sentiments. His pen was at this time continually employed in 
writing pamphlets, prefaces, epitaphs, essays, and biographical memoirs for 
the magazine; but the compensation he received was small, very small; and 
it is distressing to reflect that, at this period, the poverty of this most distin- 
guished scholar was so great, that he was sometimes obliged to pass the day 
without food. 

In 1744 he published the " Life of Richard Savage," one of the best writ- 
ten and most instructive pieces of biography extant, and which was at once 
the theme of general admiration. 1 In 1747 he issued his plan for his "Eng- 
lish Dictionary," addressed, in an admirably written pamphlet, to the Earl of 
Chesterfield, who, however, concerned himself very little about its success. 
The time he could spare from this Herculean labor, he gave to various lite- 
lary subjects. In 1749 appeared his "Vanity of Human Wishes," an admi- 
)able poem, in imitation of the tenth satire of Juvenal; and in the next year 
he commenced his periodical paper "The Rambler," which deservedly raised 
the reputation of the author still higher, and which, from the peculiar strength 
of its style, exerted a powerful influence on English Piose Literature. 2 In 
1755, appeared the great work which has made his name known wnerever 
the English language is spoken — his long-promised " Dictionary." Eignt long 
years was he in bringing it to a completion; and considering the little aid he 
could receive from previous lexicographers, it was a gigantic undertaking ; 
and most successfully and nobly did he accomplish it. 3 But just before it was 

1 One of the best proofs of its attractive power was given by Sir Joshua Reynolds, who said that, 
on his return from Italy, he met with it in Devonshire, knowing nothing of its author, and began to 
read it while he was standing with his arm leaning against a chimney-piece. It seized his attention 
so strongly, that, not being able to lay down the book till he had finished it, when he attempted to 
move, he found his arm totally benumbed. 

2 "The Rambler," was commenced on the 20th of March, 1750, and continued every Tuesday and 
Saturday to March 14, 1752. Of the energy and fertility of resource with which this work was con- 
ducted, there can be no greater proof than that during the whole time, though afflicted with disease, 
and harassed with the toils of lexicography, he wrote the whole himself, with the exception of four 
or five numbers. 

3 The French Academy of forty members were all engaged upon their boasted Dictionary, which, 
after all, «v<is not equal to Johnson's single-handed labor. This gave rise to the following spirited 
lines from Garrick : — 

Talk of war with a Briton, he'll boldly advance, 
That one English soldier will beat ten of France; 
Would we alter the boast from the sword to the pen, 
Our odd* are still greater, still greater our men; 



17G0-1820.] jonxsosr. 649 

published, Lord Chesterfield endeavored to influence Johnson to dedicate it 
1® himself, and for this purpose he wrote two numbers, in a periodical paper, 
"The World," highly complimentary of Johnson's learning and labors. John-, 
son was of course highly indignant, 1 and addressed to him the following let- 
ter, which, for the polish of its style, the elegance of its language, the keenness 
of its sarcasm, its manly disdain, and the condensed vigor of its thought, is, 
perhaps, unequalled in English literature. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 
JVIy Lobd : 

I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of The World, 
that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the 
public, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished, 
is an honor, which, being very little accustomed to favors from the 
great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to ac- 
knowledge. 

When upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your 
lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the en- 
chantment of your address ; and could not forbear to wish that I 
might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre ; 2 — - 
that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world con- 
tending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that 
neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When 
I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all 
the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can pos- 
sess. I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to 
have his all neglected, be it ever so little. 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your 
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which 
time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of 
which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the 
verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of 
encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not 
expect, for I never had a patron before. 

In the deep mines of science, though Frenchmen may toil, 
Can their strength be compared to Locke, Newton, and Boyle ? 
Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their powers, 
Their verse-men and prose-men ; then match them with ours : 
First Shakspeare and Milton, like gods in the fight, 
Have put their whole drama and epic to flight; 
In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope, 
Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope; 
And Johnson, well arm'd like a hero of yore, 
Has beat forty French, and will beat forty more I" 

1 In his anger he exclaimed to his friend Garrick, "I have sailed a long and painful voyage 
round the world of the English language ; and does he now send out two cock boats to tow me Into 
harbor ?" 

2 The conqueror of the conqueror of the world. 

05 



650 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. 

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and 
found him a native of the rocks. 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who lcoks with unconcern on a 
man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached 
the ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you 
have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had 
been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can- 
not enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ; till I am 
known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity 
not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to- 
be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to 
a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to 
any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though 1 
should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have been 
long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted 
myself with so much exultation, 
My Lord, 

Your Lordship's most humble, 

Most obedient servant, 

Samuel Johnson. 1 

In the few years succeeding the publication of his " Dictionary," he em- 
ployed himself in an edition of Shakspeare, and gave to the world another 
periodical paper entitled "The Idler." In the former, when it appeared in 
1765, the public were very much disappointed; for though the preface was 
written in a style unsurpassed for its beauty and strength, and showed that 
he well knew the duties and requirements of a commentator upon the great 
dramatic poet, his annotations showed that he had not that critical know- 
ledge of the writers of the times of Shakspeare and antecedent thereto, which 
is requisite properly to elucidate the bard. In 1759 he appeared in a new 
character, that of a Novelist, in the publication of his " Kasselas," which was 
written to defray the expenses of his mother's funeral. In 1762 he was re- 
lieved from pecuniary anxiety by a pension of ,£300 a year, granted to him 
in consideration of the happy influence of his writings ; for Lord Bute ex- 
pressly told him, on his accepting the bounty, that it was given him not for 
any thing he was to do, bu . for what he had done. 

In the next year, 1763, he was' introduced to his biographer, James Bos 
well, and we have, from this date, a fuller account of him, perhaps, than was 
ever wrhten of any other individual. 2 From this time we are made as fa- 

l There is pretty good evidence that Johnson, after the first ebullition of temper had subsided, felt 
that he had been unreasonably violent in addressing this letter to Chesterfield ; and that his lordship 
was not to blame for not sooner noticing Johnson's great work. Indeed the " notice," for any useful 
purpose, could not have been earlier. Consult — Croker's "new and revised" edition of Boswell's 
Johnson, 1 vol. 8vo., pp. 85, 86— a most admirable book, and one which probably contains more in- 
teresting and valuable literarv information than any other volume of equal size in the language. 

1 "The most triumphant record of the caients and character of Johnson is to be found in Boswell's 
lffe of him. The man was superior to the author. When he threw aside his pen, which he regarded 
aa an encumbrance, he became not only learned and thoughtful, but acute, witty, humorous, natural, 
honest; hearty and determined, 'the king of good fellows and wale of old men.' There are as many 



1760-1820.] johnson. " 651 

miliar, as it is in the power of writing to make us, with the character, tho 
habits, and the appearance of Johnson, and the persons and things with which 
he is connected. " Every thing about him," says an able critic, 1 " his coat, his 
wig, His figure, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which 
too clearly marked the approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for 
fish sauce, and veal pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for tea, his 
trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious practice of treasuring 
. up scraps of orange peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his 
contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and 
ready eloquence ; his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of 
tempestuous rage, his queer inmates — old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Wil- 
liams, the cat Hodge, and the negro Frank — all are as familiar to us as the 
objects by which we have been surrounded." 

In 1773, in company with Mr. Boswell, he made a tour to the Western 
Islands of Scotland, of which he published an interesting and instructive 
account. In it he pronounces decidedly against the authenticity of the poems 
called " Ossian's." The last of his literary labors was his " Lives of the 
Poets," which were completed in 1781. 2 Though it is a work that, on the 
whole, is justly considered as one of the ablest contributions to English bio- 
graphy, it must be read with great caution ; for the criticisms of Johnson are 
too often biased by his strong political, religious, and even personal antipa- 
thies, as is clearly evinced in the gross injustice he has done to the two great- 
est poets of the series — Milton 3 and Gray. " His indiscriminate hatred of 
Whig principles; his detestation of blank verse; his dislike of pastoral, lyric, 
and descriptive poetry ; his total want of enthusiasm ; and his perpetual 
efforts to veil the splendor of genius, are frequently lost in the admiration 
which the blaze and vigor of his intellectual powers so strongly excite. This 
is, in fact, the work in which the excellencies and defects of Johnson are 
placed before the reader with their full prominence; in which the lovers of 
philology and biography, the friends of -moral and ethic wisdom, will find 

smart repartees, profound remarks, and keen invectives to be found in Boswell's 'inventory of all 
he said,' as are recorded of any celebrated man. The life and dramatic play of his conversation 
form a contrast to his written works. His natural powers and undisguised opinions were called 
out in convivial intercourse. In public, he practised with the foils : in private, he unsheathed the 
sword of controversy, and it was 'the Ebro's temper.' The eagerness of opposition roused hira 
from his natural sluggishness and acquired timidity; he returned blow for blow; and whether the 
trial were of argument or wit, none of his rivals could boast much of the encounter. Burke seems 
to have been the only person who had a chance with him; and it is the unpardonable sin of Bos- 
well's work, that he has purposely omitted their combats of strength and skill. Goldsmith asked, 
1 Does he wind into a subject like a serpent, as Burke does ?' And when exhausted with sickness, 
he himself said, 'If that fellow Burke were here now, he would kill me.' " — Hazlitt's English Comic 
Writers. 

1 Bead— the article in the 53d vol. of the Edinburgh Review, or in Macaulay's Miscellanies, vol. ii. 
p. 11: also an article, "Johnson and his Biographers," in the 46th vol. of the Quarterly : also, par 
ticularly, the new edition of Croker's Boswell, in one large octavo— an invaluable work; Murphy's 
Life, in the Preface to his Works ; a " Memoir" by Sir Walter Scott, in the third volume of his Prose 
Works ; and the " Literary Life of Dr. Johnson," in the 4th vol. of Drake's Essays. 

2 " No man can entertain a higher idea of Johnson's intellectual powers as a lexicographer, a 
teacher, and a moralist, than myself; but poetical criticism was not his province; and though m 
point of style his 'Lives' be superior, perhaps, to any of his preceding compositions, they are infi- 
nitely more disgraced by the inexorable partialities of the man."— Drake's "Literary Hours," i. 22i 
Read, also, a fine article on Johnson in Sir Egerton Brydges's "Imaginative Biography," ii. 251. 

3 What greater contrast can we conceive than that exhibited in the characters of Milton and John- 
son ; in the former of whom so predominated the imaginative and the spiritual ; in the latter, the 
sensuous and the animal. 



652 JOHNSON. [GEORGE IIT. 

much to applaud; but in which also the disciples of candor and impartiality, 
the votaries of creative fancy and of genuine poetry, will have much to 
regret and much to condemn." 

Scarcely had he finished his "Lives of the Poets," when in May, 1781, he 
lost his long-tried friend Mr. Thrale, in whose house he had been a con- 
stant resident for fifteen years : and the next year deprived him of his old 
and faithful friend Dr. Robert Levett, 1 upon whose character he wrote the 
beautiful and touching verses which do so much honor to his heart. But his 
own end was drawing near. In June, 1783, he had a paralytic stroke, which 
for some hours deprived him of the power of speech. From this, however, 
he recovered, but towards the end of the year he was seized with a violent 
fit of asthma, accompanied with dropsical swellings of the legs. These affec- 
tions subsided by the beginning of the next year ; but towards the autumn 
they so increased, that all hopes of his recovery were at an end. He had 
always entertained a great dread of death, and his hours of health were im- 
bittered by his apprehensions of dissolution. But when he saw his end actu- 
ally approaching, he became entirely resigned, strong in his faith in Christ, 
joyful in the hope of his own salvation, and anxious for the salvation of his 
friends. 2 "On the evening of the 13th of December, 1784, and in the 75th 
year of his age, he expired so calmly, that the persons who were sitting in 
the room only knew that he had ceased to breathe, by the sudden failure of 
the sound which had for some days accompanied his respiration." 

The great characteristic of Dr. Johnson was uncommon vigor and logical 
precision of intellect. His reasoning was sound, dexterous, and acute ; his 
thoughts striking and original ; and his imagination vivid. In conversation 
his style was keen and pointed, and his language appropriate ; and he dis- 
played such a comprehensive view of his subject, such accuracy of percep- 
tion, such lucidity of discrimination, and such facility of illustration, as to throw 
light upon every question, however intricate, and to prove the best of all prac- 
tical guides in the customary occurrences of life. 

Besides these great qualities, he possessed others of a most humiliating lit- 
tleness. In many respects he seemed a different person at different times. 
He was intolerant of particular principles, which he would not allow to be 
discussed within his hearing ; of particular nations, and particular individuals 
He was superstitious ; and his mind was at an early period narrowed upon 
many questions, religious and political. He was open to flattery, hard to 
please, easy to offend, impetuous and irritable. "The characteristic pecu- 
liarity of Johnson's intellect," says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, " was 
the union of great powers with low prejudices. If we judged of him by the 
best parts of his mind, we should place him almost as high as he was placed 
by the idolatry of Boswell ; if by the worst parts of his mind, we should place 
him even below Boswell himself." This short and imperfect view of his 
character would convey a wrong impression, did we not add, that he was 
steady and inflexible in maintaining the obligations of religion, a sincere and 
2-ealous Christian, and possessed of a most kind and benevolent heart.3 

1 This Dr. Levett " was the constant companion of Johnson at his morning's meal for near forty 
years. He was a practitioner of physic among the lower orders of people in London : his fees were 
small, but his business was extensive, and he always walked. This good man lived in great obscu- 
rity, though continually and most conscientiously employed in mitigating the sorrows of poverty and 
disease." 

2 On iiis dying bed, he particularly exhorted Sir Joshua Reynolds " to read the Bible, and to keep 
tinly the Sabbath-day;" that is, not to paint on that day. 

a The Earl of Egihitoune, of remarkable elegance of manners, once remarked at a supper party 



1760-1820.] johnson. 653 

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 

'Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the process of which 
we are perpetually changing our scenes ; we first leave childhood 
behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then 
the better and more pleasing part of old age." The perusal of 
this passage having incited in me a train of reflections on the state 
of man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual change 
of his disposition to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness 
with which he floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber 
amidst my meditations ; and, on a sudden, found my ears filled 
with the tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of 
alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters. 

My astonishment for a time repressed my curiosity ; but soon 
recovering myself so far as to inquire whither we were going, and 
what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, I was told that 
they were launching out into the ocean of life; that we had al- 
ready passed the straits of infancy, in which multitudes had per- 
ished, some by the weakness and fragility of their vessels, and 
more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of those who under- 
took to steer them ; and that we were now on the main sea, 
abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of 
security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our 
power to choose among great numbers that offered their direction 
and assistance. 

I then looked round with anxious eagerness ; and first turning 
my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery islands, 
which every one that sailed along seemed to behold with pleasure ; 
but no sooner touched, than the current, which, though not noisy 
or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him away. Beyond these 
islands all was darkness, nor could any of the passengers describe 
the shore at which he first embarked. 

Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters vio- 
lently agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most 
perspicacious eye could see but a little way. It appeared to be 
full of rocks and whirlpools, for many sunk unexpectedly while 
they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those 
whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were the 
dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer 
security. Yet there were many, who, by false intelligence, be- 
at Boswell's, that he regretted that Johnson had not been educated with more refinement and lived 
more in polished society. "No, no, my lord," said Baretti, "do with him what you would, he would 
always have been a bear." "True," answered the Earl with a smile, "but then he would have 
been a dancing bear." 

"To obviate all the reflections which have gone round the world to Johnson's prejudice, by apply- 
ing to him the epithet of a bear, let me impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my 
friend Goldsmith, who knew him well: — 'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner; but 
no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his skin.' "—Ji^well. 



654 Johnson. [geokge hi. 

trayed their followers into whirlpools, or by violence pushed those 
whom they found in their way against the rocks. 

The current was invariable and insurmountable ; but though it 
was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place that was 
once passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities 
for dexterity or courage, since, though none could retreat back 
from danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique direction. 

It was, however, not very common to steer with much care or 
prudence ; for by some universal infatuation, every man appeared 
to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts every moment 
sinking round him; and no sooner had the waves closed ovei 
them, than their fate and misconduct were forgotten ; the voyage 
was pursued with the same jocund confidence ; every man con- 
gratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed 
himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swal- 
lowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed : nor was 
it often observed that the sight of a wreck made any man change 
his course : if he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the 
rudder, and left himself again to the disposal of chance. 

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from 
weariness of their present condition ; for not one of those who 
thus rushed upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call 
loudly upon his associates for that help which could not now be 
given him ; and many spent their last moments in cautioning 
others against the folly by which they were intercepted in th6 
midst of their course. Their benevolence was sometimes praised, 
but their admonitions were unregarded. 

The vessels in which we had embarked, being confessedly un- 
equal to the. turbulence of the stream of life, were visibly impaired 
in the course of the voyage ; so that every passenger was certain, 
that how long soever he might, by favorable accidents, or by in- 
cessant vigilance, be preserved, he must sink at last. 

This necessity of perishing might have been expected to sad- 
den the gay, and intimidate the daring, at least to keep the melan 
choly and timorous in perpetual torments, and hinder them from 
any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifications which nature 
offered them as the solace of their labor ; yet in effect none 
seemed less to expect destruction than those to whom it was most 
dreadful; they a ! l had the art of concealing their dangers from 
themselves ; and those who knew their inability to bear the sight 
of the terrors that embarrassed their way, took care never to look 
forward, but found some amusement for the present moment, and 
generally entertained themselves by playing with Hope, who was 
th" constant associate of the voyage of life. 

Yet aH that Hope ventured to promise, even to those whom she 
favored most, was, not that they should escape, but that they 



1760-1820.] johnson. 655 

should sink last ; and with this promise every o le was satis- 
fied, though he laughed at the rest for seeming to believe it. 
Hope, indeed, apparently mocked the credulity of her compa- 
nions ; for in proportion as their vessels grew leaky, she redoubled 
her assurances of safety ; and none were more busy in making 
provisions for a long voyage, than they whom all but themselves 
saw likely to perish soon by irreparable decay. 

In the midst of the current of life was the gulf of Intemperance, 
a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the pointed 
crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered with 
herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose, and with 
shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within 
sight of these rocks all who sailed on the ocean of life must neces- 
sarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand to steer the 
passengers through a narrow outlet by which they might escape ; 
but very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be in- 
duced to put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that 
she should approach so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that they 
might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that delicious 
region, after which they always determined to pursue their course 
without any other deviation. 

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises, 
as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulf of Intemper- 
ance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet inter- 
rupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, 
towards the centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all 
her force endeavored to retreat ; but the draught of the gulf was 
generally too strong to be overcome ; and the passenger, having 
danced in circles with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last 
overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason was able to ex- 
tricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon the points which 
shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were unable to con- 
tinue their course with the same strength and facility as before, 
but floated along timorously and feebly, endangered by every 
breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of the water, till they sunk, 
by slow degrees, after long struggles and innumerable expedients, 
always repining at their own folly, and warning others against the 
first approach to the gulf of Intemperance. 

There were artists who professed to repair the breaches and 
stop the leaks of the vessels which had been shattered on the 
rocks of Pleasure. Many appeared to have great confidence in 
their skill, and some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, 
who had received only a single blow ; but I remarked that few- 
vessels lasted long which had been much repaired, nor was it 
found that the artists themselves continued afloat longer than those 
who had least of their assistance. 



Ho6 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. 

The only advantage which, in the voyage of life, the cautious 
had above the negligent, was that they sunk later, and more sud- 
denly ; for they passed forward till they had sometimes seen all 
those in whose company they had issued from the straits of in- 
fancy, perish in the way, and at last were overset by a cross 
breeze, without the toil of resistance, or the anguish of expecta- 
tion. But such as had often fallen against the rocks of Pleasure, 
commonly subsided by sensible degrees, contended long with the 
encroaching waters, and harassed themselves by labors that 
scarce Hope herself could flatter with success. 

As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about 
me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some un- 
known Power, " Gaze not idly upon others when thou thyself art 
sinking. Whence is this thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and 
they are equally endangered ?" I looked, and seeing the gulf of 
Intemperance before me, started and awaked. 

Rambler, No. 102. 



KNOWLEDGE TO BE ACCOMMODATED TO THE PURPOSES OF LIFE. 

It is too common for those who have been bred to scholastic 
professions, and passed much of their time in academies where 
nothing but learning confers honors, to disregard every other qua- 
lification, and to imagine that they shall find mankind ready to 
pay homage to their knowledge, and to crowd about them for in- 
struction. They therefore step out from their cells into the open 
world, with all the confidence of authority and dignity of import- 
ance ; they look round about them, at once with ignorance and 
scorn, on a race of beings to whom they are equally unknown and 
equally contemptible, but whose manners they must imitate, and 
with whose opinions they must comply, if they desire to pass theii 
time happily among them. 

To lessen that disdain with which scholars are inclined to look 
on the common business of the world, and the unwillingness with 
which they condescend to learn what is not to be found in any 
system of philosophy, it may be necessary to consider that though 
admiration is excited by abstruse researches and remote discove- 
ries, yet pleasure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by 
softer accomplishments, and qualities more easily communicable 
to those about us. He that can only converse upon questions 
aoout which only a small part of mankind has knowledge suffi- 
cient to make them curious, must lose his days in unsocial silence, 
and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can 
only be useful in great occasions, may die without exerting his 
abilities, and stand a helpless spectator of a thousand vexations 
which fret away happiness, and which nothing is required to 



1760-1820.] johnson. 657 

remove but a little dexterity of conduct and readiness of expe- 
dients. 

No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to set him 
above the want of hourly assistance, or to extinguish the desire 
of fond endearments and tender officiousness ; and, therefore, no 
one should think it unnecessary to learn those arts by which 
friendship may be gained. Kindness is preserved by a constant 
reciprocation of benefits or interchange of pleasures ; but such 
benefits only can be bestowed as others are capable to receive, and 
such pleasures only imparted as others are qualified to enjoy. 

By this descent from the pinnacles of art, no honor will be lost; 
for the condescensions of learning are always overpaid by grati- 
tude. An elevated genius employed in little things, appears, to 
use the simile of Longinus, like the sun in his evening declina- 
tion ; he remits his splendor but retains his magnitude, and pleases 
more though he dazzles less. 

Rambler, No. 137. 



THE RIGHT IMPROVEMENT OF TIME. 

It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of any 
new qualification, to look upon themselves as required to change 
the general course of their conduct, to dismiss business, and ex- 
clude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a particular 
attention. But all common degrees of excellence are attainable at 
a lower price ; he that should steadily and resolutely assign to any 
science or language those interstitial vacancies which intervene 
in the most crowded variety of diversion or employment, would 
find every day new irradiations of knowledge, and discover how 
much more is to be hoped from frequency and perseverance, than' 
from violent efforts and sudden desires ; efforts which are soon 
remitted when they encounter difficulty, and desires which, if 
they are indulged too often, will shake off the authority of reason, 
and range capriciously from one object to another. 

The disposition to defer every important design to a time of 
leisure and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds generally from 
a false estimate of the human power. If we except those gigantic 
and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by 
intuition, and bound forward from one series of conclusions to ano- 
ther, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, the 
most successful students make their advances in knowledge by 
short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. 
For every single act of progression a short time is sufficient , and 
it is only necessary, that, whenever that time is afforded, it be 
well employed. 

Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious medi- 
2 T 



658 joiinson. [george hi. 

tation ; and when a successful attack on knowledge has been 
made, the student recreates himself with the contemplation of his 
conquest, and forbears another incursion till the new-acquired 
truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for 
fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent in 
company or in solitude, in necessary business or in voluntary 
levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object of 
inquiry; bat, perhaps, if it be detained by occupations less pleas- 
ing, it returns again to study with greater alacrity than when it 
is glutted with ideal pleasures, and surfeited with intemperance 
of application. He that will not suffer himself to be discouraged 
by fancied impossibilities, may sometimes find his abilities invi- 
gorated by the necessity of exerting them in short intervals, as the 
force of a current is increased by the contraction of its channel. 

From some cause like this it has probably proceeded, that, 
among those who have contributed to the advancement of learn- 
ing, many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles 
which external circumstances could place in their way, amidst the 
tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipations of 
a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the life of Eras- 
mus was one continual peregrination ; ill supplied with the gifts 
of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to king- 
dom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, hopes which always 
flattered and always deceived him ; he yet found means, by un- 
shaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those hours, 
which, in the midst of the most restless activity, will remain un- 
engaged, to write more than another in the same condition would 
have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attendance and soli- 
citation, and so much versed in common life, that he has trans- 
mitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners of his age, 
he joined to his knowledge of the world such application to books, 
that he will stand for ever in the first rank of literary heroes. 
How this proficiency was obtained he sufficiently discovers, by 
informing us, that the "Praise of Folly," one of his most cele- 
brated performances, was composed by him on the road to Italy, 
lest the hours which he was obliged to spend on horseback should 
be tattled away without regard to literature. 

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that time was 
his estate ; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing with- 
out cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labors of in- 
dustry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be 
suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with noxious 
plants, ir laid out for show rather than for use. 

Rambler, No. 108. 



1760--1820.] johnson. 659 



THE DUTY OF FORGIVENESS. 

A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the 
true value of time, and will inot suffer it to pass away in unneces- 
sary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate 
hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice 
and perturbations of stratagem, cannot surety be said to consult 
his ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, a 
combination of a passion which all endeavor to avoid with a pas- 
sion which all concur to detest. The man who retires to medi- 
tate mischief, and to exasperate his own rage ; whose thoughts 
are employed only on means of distress and contrivances of ruin ; 
whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own suf- 
ferings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities of 
another, may justly be numbered among the most miserable of 
human beings, among those who are guilty without reward, who 
have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. 

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others, 
will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to 
what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how 
much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that com- 
mitted it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negli- 
gence ; we cannot be certain how much more we feel than was 
intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief to 
ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design 
the effects of accident ; we may think the blow violent only be- 
cause we have made ourselves delicate and tender; we are on 
every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain 
to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. 

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others 
and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no 
man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted by his 
adversary, or despised by the world. 

It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that 
"all pride is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, 
or cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and 
proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensi- 
bility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which 'rea- 
son condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human mind. 
To be driven by external motives from the path which our own 
heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, to suffer 
the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, 
is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, 
and to resign the right of directing our own lives. 

The utmost excellence at w> : ch humanity can arrive, i« a con- 



660 JOHNSON. [GEORGE LfT. 

stant and determined pursuit of virtue, without regard to present 
dangers or advantages ; a continual reference of every action to 
the divine will ; an habitual appeal to everlasting justice ; and an 
unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which per- 
severance only can obtain. But that pride which many, who pre- 
sume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their 
measures, has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of 
men, of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to 
acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the 
utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward ; 
of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, 
or partially determine what they never have examined; and whose 
sentence is, therefore, of no weight till it has received the ratifica- 
tion of our own conscience. 

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price 
of his innocence ; he that can suffer the delight, of such acclama- 
tions to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal 
Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon the great- 
ness of his mind : whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflec- 
tion, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with 
shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and folly. 

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required 
that he forgive. It is, therefore, superfluous to urge any other 
motive. On this great duty eternity is suspended ; and to him 
that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and 
the Saviour of the world has been born in vain. xambier, so. its. 

SOLITUDE NOT DESIRABLE. 

Though learning may be conferred by solitude, its application 
must be attained by general converse. He has learned to no 
purpose that is net able to teach; and he will always teach un- 
successfully, who cannot recommend his sentiments by his diction 
or address. 

Even the acquisition of knowledge is often much facilitated by 
trie advantages of society : he that never compares his notions 
with those of others, readily acquiesces in his first thoughts, and 
very seldom discovers the objections which may be raised against 
his opinions ; he, therefore, often thinks himself in possession of 
truth, when he is only fondling an error long since exploded. He 
that has neither companions nor rivals in his studies, will always 
applaud his own progress, and think highly of his performances, 
because he knows not that others have equalled or excelled him. 
And I am afraid it may be added, that the student who withdraws 
himself from the world, will soon feel that ardor extinguished 
*vhich praise or emulation had enkindled, and take the advantage 
of secrecy to sleep, rather than to labor. 



1760-1820.] Johnson. 601 

There is a set of recluses, whose intentkn entitles them to re- 
spect, and whose motives deserve a serious consideration. These 
retire from the world, not merely to bask in ease or gratify curi- 
osity ; but that, being disengaged from common cares, they may 
employ more time in the duties of religion ; that they may regu- 
late their actions with stricter vigilance, and purify their thoughts 
by more frequent meditation. 

To men thus elevated above the mists of mortality, I am far 
from presuming myself qualified to give directions. On him that 
appears " to pass through things temporal," with no other care 
than " not to lose finally the things eternal," I look with such 
veneration as inclines me to approve his conduct in the whole, 
without a minute examination of its parts ; yet I could never for- 
bear to wish, that while vice is every day multiplying seduce- 
ments, and stalking forth with more hardened effrontery, virtue 
would not withdraw the influence of her presence, or forbear to 
assert her natural dignity by open and undaunted perseverance 
in the right. Piety practised in solitude, like the flower that 
blooms in the desert, may give its fragrance to the winds of hea- 
ven, and delight those unbodied spirits that survey the works of 
God and the actions of men ; but it bestows no assistance upon 
earthly beings, and however free from taints of impurity, yet 
wants the sacred splendor of beneficence. Adventurer, no. 126. 



GAYETY AND GOOD-HUMOR. 

It is imagined by many that whenever they aspire to please, 
they are required to be merry, and to show the gladness of their 
souls by flights of pleasantry and bursts of laughter. But though 
these men may be for a time heard with applause and admiration, 
they seldom delight us long. We enjoy them a little, and then 
retire to easiness and good-humor, as the eye gazes a while on 
eminences glittering with the sun, but soon turns aching away to 
verdure and to flowers. Gayety is to good-humor, as animal per- 
fumes to vegetable fragrance. The one overpowers weak spirits, 
and the other recreates and revives them. 

THE CONVERSATION OF AUTHORS. 

A transition from an author's book to his conversation, is too 
often like an eitrance into a large city, after a distant prospect. 
Remotely we see nothing but spires of temples and turrets of 
palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendor, grandeur, and 
magnificence ; but when we have passed the gates, we find it 
perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with, despicable cot- 
tages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke. 

56 



662 JOHNSON. [GEOKGE III. 

BOOKS AND TRADITION. 

Books are faithful repositories, which may he a while neglected 
or forgotten ; but when they are opened again, will again impart 
their instruction : memory once interrupted is not to he recalled. 
Written learning is a fixed luminary, which, after the cloud that 
has hidden it has passed away, is again bright in its proper station. 
Tradition is but a meteor, which, if once it falls, cannot be re- 
kindled. 

PREVENTION OF EVIL HABITS. 

Those who are in the power of evil habits must conquer them 
as they can ; and conquered they must be, or neither wisdom nor 
happiness can be attained ; but those who are not yet subject to 
their influence, may, by timely caution, preserve their freedom ; 
they may effectually resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they will 
very vainly resolve to conquer. 

FROM THE PREFACE TO HIS DICTIONARY. 

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature for- 
bids to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labor of years, 
to the honor of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm 
of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the continent. 
The chief glory of every people arises from its authors : whether 
1 shall add any thing by my own writings to the reputation of 
English literature, must be left to time ; much of my life has 
been lost under the pressures of disease ; much has been trifled 
away ; and much has always been spent in provision for the day 
.that was passing over me ; but I shall not think my employment 
useless or ignoble, if, by my assistance, foreign nations and distant 
ages gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand 
the teachers of truth ; if my labors afford light to the repositories 
of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and 
to Boyle. 

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my 
book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit 
of a man that has endeavored well. That it will immediately 
become popular, I have not promised to myself; a few wild blun- 
ders and risible absurdities, from which no work of such multi- 
plicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with laughter, 
and harden ignorance into contempt; but useful diligence will at 
last prevail, and there can never be wanting some who distinguish 
desert, who will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue 
ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to publication, 
some words are budding and some falling away ; that a whole life 
cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that even a whole 



1700-1820.] joiinson. 663 

life would not be sufficient ; that he whose design includes what- 
ever language can express, must often speak of what he does not 
understand ; that a writer will sometimes be hurried by eagerness 
f.o the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under a task which 
Scaliger compares to the labors of the anvil and the mine ; that 
what is obvious is not always known, and what is known is not 
always present ; that sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise 
vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, and casual 
eclipses of the mind will darken learning; and that the writer 
shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment of need for 
that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, and which 
will come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow. 

In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let 
.it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed ; and though 
no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author, and the 
world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of 
that which it condemns, yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, 
that the English Dictionary was written with little assistance of 
the learned, and without any patronage of the great ; not in the 
soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic 
bowers, but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and 
in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to 
observe, that if our language is not here fully displayed, I have 
only failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto 
completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably 
fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of 
successive ages, inadequate and delusive ; if the aggregated 
knowledge and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians 
did not secure them from the censure of Beni ; if the embodied 
critics of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their 
work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second 
edition another form, I may surely be contented without the praise 
of perfection, which, if I could obtain in this gloom of solitude, 
what would it avail me ? I have protracted my work till most of 
those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave, and 
success and miscarriage are empty sounds. I therefore dismiss 
it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from cen- 
sure or from praise. 

REFLECTIONS ON LANDING AT IONA. 1 

We were now treading that illustrious island which was once 
the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and 
roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the bless- 
ings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion 

1 One of the Western Isles. 



064 JOHXSON. [GEORGE III. 

would be impossible if it were endeavored, and would be foolish 
if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of 
our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future 
predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of think- 
ing beings. Far from me and my friends be such frigid philoso- 
phy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground 
which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That 
man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force 
on the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer 
among the ruins of Iona. 

PICTURE OF THE MISERIES OF WAR. 

It is wonderful with what coolness and indifference the greater 
part of mankind see war commenced. Those that hear of it at a 
distance or read of it in books, but have never presented its evils 
to their minds, consider it as little more than a splendid game, a 
proclamation, an army, a battle, and a triumph. Some, indeed, 
must perish in the successful field, but they die upon the bed of 
honor, resign their lives amidst the joys of conquest, and, filled 
with England's glory, smile in death ! 

The life of a modern soldier is ill represented by heroic fiction. 
War has means of destruction more formidable than the cannon 
and the sword. Of the thousands and ten thousands that perished 
in our late contests with France and Spain, a very small part ever 
felt the stroke of an enemy; the rest languished in tents and 
ships, amidst damps and putrefaction; pale, torpid, spiritless, and 
helpless ; gasping and groaning, unpitied among men, made ob- 
durate by long continuance of hopeless misery; and were at last 
whelmed in pits, or heaved into the ocean, without notice and 
without remembrance. By incommodious encampments and un- 
wholesome stations, where courage is useless and enterprise im- 
practicable, fleets are silently dispeopled, and armies sluggishly 
melted away. 

Thus is a people gradually exhausted, for the most part, with 
little effect. The wars of civilized nations make very slow 
changes in the system of empire. The public perceives scarcely 
any alteration but an increase of debt ; and the few individuals 
who are benefited are not supposed to have the clearest right to 
their advantages. If he that shared the danger enjoyed the pro- 
fit, and after bleeding in the battle, grew rich by the victory, he 
might show his gains without envy. But at the conclusion of a 
ten years' war, how are we recompensed for the death of multi- 
tudes and the expense of millions, but by contemplating the sud- 
den glories of paymasters and agents, contractors and commissa- 
ries, whose equipages shine like meteors, and whose palaces rise 
like exhalations ! 



L7GO-1820.] johnson. 665 



PARALLEL BETWEEN DRYDEN AND POPE. 

Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment were not 
allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The ' recti- 
tude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission 
of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts 
and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the 
judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely 
for the people ; and when he pleased others, he contented him- 
self. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers ; he 
never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor 
often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, 
as he tells us, with very little consideration ; when occasion or 
necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present mo- 
ment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the 
press, ejected it from his mind ; for when he had no pecuniary 
interest, he had no further solicitude. 

Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired to excel, and there- 
fore always endeavored to do his best : he did not court the can- 
dor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and, expecting no 
indulgence from others, he showed none to himself. He ex- 
amined lines and words with minute and punctilious observation, 
and retouched every part with indefatigable diligence till he had 
left nothing to be forgiven. 

For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands, 
while he considered and reconsidered them. The only poems 
which can be supposed to have been written with such regard to 
the times as might hasten their publication, were the two satires 
of " Thirty-eight ;" of which Dodsiey told me, that they were 
brought to him by the author, that they might be fairly copied. 
"Almost every line," he said, "was then written twice over; I 
gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards 
to me for the press, with almost every line written twice over a 
second time." 

His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their pub- 
lication, was not strictly true. His parental attention never aban- 
doned them ; what he found amiss in the first edition, he silentty 
corrected in those that followed. He appears to have revised the 
" Iliad," and freed it from some of its imperfections ; and the 
" Essay on Criticism" received many improvements after its first 
appearance. It will seldom be found that he altered without add- 
ing clearness, elegance, or vigor. Pope had perhaps the judg- 
ment of Dryden ; but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of 
Pope. 

In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dry- 
den, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before he 

50* 



66Q JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. 

became an author, had been allowed more time for study, with 
better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and 
he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive cir- 
cumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his gene- 
ral nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dry- 
den were formed by comprehensive speculation ; and those of 
Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the know- 
ledge of* Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both excelled like- 
wise in prose ; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his prede- 
cessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that of 
Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden observes the motions of 
his own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of com- 
position. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; Pope is 
always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a natural 
field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exube- 
rance of abundant vegetation; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by 
the scythe, and levelled by the roller. 

Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet ; that quality 
without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert; that 
energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates ; the 
superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. It 
is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only a 
little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since 
Milton must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be 
said, that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. 
Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by some 
external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity ; he composed 
without consideration, and published without correction. What 
his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all 
that he sought, and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of 
Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to multiply his 
images, and to accumulate all that study might produce, or chance 
might supply. If the flights of Dryden therefore are higher, 
Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the 
blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. 
Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls below 
it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with 
perpetual delight. ufeofp^e. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Shakspeare is, above all writers, — at least above all modern 
writers, — the poet of nature ; the poet that holds up to his read- 
ers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters are 
not modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised by 
the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of studies or profes- 



1760-1820.] johnson. 667 

s-ions, which can operate but upon small numbers ; or by the acci 
dents of transient fashions or temporary opinions . they are the 
genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will 
always supply, and observation will always find. His persons 
act and speak by the influence of those general passions and prin- 
ciples by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of 
life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets a cha- 
racter is too often an individual : in those of Shakspeare it is 
commonly a species. 

It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruc- 
tion is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakspeare with 
practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides, 
that every verse was a precept ; and it may be said of Shakspeare, 
that from his works may be collected a system of civil and econo- 
mical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendor 
of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and the 
tenor of his dialogue : and he that tries to recommend him by 
select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, 
when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as 
a specimen. 

It will not easily be imagined how much Shakspeare excels in 
accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him 
with other authors. It was observed of the ancient schools of 
declamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the 
more was the student disqualified for the world, because he found 
nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. The 
same remark may be applied to every stage but that of Shaks- 
peare. The theatre, when it is under any other direction, is peo- 
pled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in a lan- 
guage which was never heard, upon topics which will never arise 
in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this author is 
often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, 
and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems 
scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned by 
diligent selection out of common conversa ion and common occur- 
rences. 

Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose 
power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened 
or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable ; 
to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with 
oppositions of interest, and harass them with violence of desires 
inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rapture, and 
part in agony ; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and out- 
rageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was dis- 
tressed ; to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered : 
is the business of a modern dramatist. For this, probability is 



6G8 JOHNSON. [GEORGE in. 

violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But 
love is only one of many passions ; and as it has no great influ- 
ence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas of 
a poet, who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited 
only what he saw before him. He knew that any other passion, 
as' it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or 
calamity. 

This, therefore, is the praise of Shakspeare, that his drama is 
the mirror of life ; that he who has mazed his imagination, in fol- 
lowing the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may 
here be cured of his delirious ecstasies, by reading human senti- 
ments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may 
estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the 
progress of the passions. 

Shakspeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense 
either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind ; 
exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of 
good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of 
proportion, and innumerable modes of combination ; and express- 
ing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain of 
another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his 
wine, and the mourner burying his friend ; in which the ma- 
lignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolic of another; and 
many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without 
design. 

Shakspeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sor- 
row not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all 
his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, 
and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce 
seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. 

That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be 
readily allowed ; but there is always an appeal open from criticism 
to nature. The end of writing is to instruct ; the end of poetry 
is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey 
all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because 
it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches 
nearer than either to the appearance of life, by showing how 
great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate 
one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general 
system by unavoidable concatenation. 

The force of his comic scenes has suffered little diminution from 
the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in 
words. As his personages act upon principles arising from ge- 
nuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their plea- 
sures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; 
they are natural, and therefore durable. The adventitious pecu- 



1760-1820.] johnson. GG9 

liarities of personal habits are only superficial dyes, bright and 
pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without 
any remains of former lustre ; but the discriminations of true pas- 
sion are the colors of nature ; they pervade the whole mass, and 
can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The accidental 
compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance 
which combined them ; but the uniform simplicity of primitive 
qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand 
heaped by one flood is scattered by another; but the rock always 
continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually 
washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without in- 
jury by the adamant of Shakspeare. 



Preface to Shakspeare, 



THE FATE OF POVERfY. 



By numbers here from shame or censure free, 
All crimes are safe but hated poverty. 
This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 
This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
The sober trader at a tatter*d cloak 
Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke ; 
With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, 
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 

Of all the griefs that harass the distress"d, 
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; 
Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart, 
Than when a blockhead"s insult points the dart. 

Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 
No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? 
No secret island in the boundless main % 
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? l 
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, 
And bear oppression's insolence no more. 
This mournful truth is every where confessed, 

SeOW RISES WORTH, BX POVERTY DEPRESS D. 

London. 

CARDINAL WOLSEY. 

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
To him the church, the realm, their powers consign, 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine. 
Turnd by his nod, the stream of honor flows, 
His smile alone security bestows ; 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; 
Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize. 



l The Spaniards had at this time laid claim to several of the EngJish provinces in America. 



670 JOHNSON. [GEORGE III. 

At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; 
Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest : 
Grief aids disease, remember d lolly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Vanity of Human WiaAe*. 



CHARLES XII. 1 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain. 
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field: 
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; 
. " Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till naught remain, 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky. ?: 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; — 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! 
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
Condemn'd, a needy suppliant, to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
He left a name, at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

Vanity of Human Wishes. 

1 Charles XTT., King: of Sweden, having invaded Russia, was totally defeated at the battle of Pul- 
towa, and forced to seek refuge in Turkey. He was afterwards killed at the siege of a little fort in 
Norway. 



1760-1820.] johnson. en 



OBJECTS OF PETITION. 

Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find j 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise ; 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies 7 
Inquirer, eease ; petitions yet remain, 
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice 
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayer ; 
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 
Secure, whate'er He gives, He gives the best. 
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires, 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, 
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain 5 
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 

Vanity of Hainan Wishes 



THE FOLLY OF PROCRASTINATION. 

To-morrow's action ! can that hoary wisdom, 
Borne down with years, still dote upon to-morrow ! 
That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy, 
The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose 
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow ; 
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow; 
Till interposing death destroys the prospect! 
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day 
Should fill the world with wretches undetected. 
The soldier, laboring through a winter's march, 
Still sees to-morrow drest in robes of triumph ; 
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms, 
To-morrow brings the visionary bride. 
But thou, too old to bear another cheat, 
Learn, that the present hour alone is man's. 

Tragedy of Irene. 



072 GREVILLE. [GEORGE III. 



MRS. GREVILLE. 

Of Mrs. Greville, whose " Prayer for Indifference" has been so much ad- 
mired, I cannot, after the greatest search, give the least account. 



PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft I've implored the gods in vain, 
And pray'd till I've been weary : 

For once I'll seek my wish to gain 
Of Oberon the fairy. 

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite 
Who lurk'st in woods unseen, 

And oft by Cynthia's silver light, 
Trip'st gayly o'er the green; 

If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 

As ancient stories tell, 
And for th' Athenian maid 1 who loved, 

Thou sought'st a wondrous spell; 

deign once more t' exert thy power I 
Haply some herb or tree, 

Sovereign as juice of western flower, 
Conceals a balm for me. 

1 ask no kind return of love, 

No tempting charm to please ; 
Far from the heart those gifts remove, 
That sighs for peace and ease : 

Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know* 

That, like the needle true, 
Turns at the touch of joy or woe, 

But, turning, trembles too. 

Far as distress the soul can wound, 

'Tis pain in each degree • 
'Tis bliss but to a certain bound ; 

Beyond, is agony. 

Then take this treacherous sense of mine 
Which dooms me still to smart ; 

Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
To pain new pangs impart. 

O haste to shed the sovereign balm, 
My shatter d nerves new string; 

And for my guest serenely calm, 
The nymph Indifference bring'. 

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 

See Expectation fly! 
And Disappointment in the rear, 

That blasts the promised joy ! 

1 See Midsummer Night's Dream. 



LTuO-1820.] lowth. 673 

The tear which Pity taught to flow, 

The eye shall then disown ; 
The heart that melts for others' woe, 

Shall then scarce feel its own : 

The wounds which now each moment bleed, 

Each moment then shall close ; 
And tranquil days shall still succeed 

To nights of calm repose. 

O Fairy Elf! but grant me this, 

This one kind comfort send, 
And so may never-fading bliss 

Thy flowery paths attend ! 

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light 

Thy tiny footsteps lead 
To some new region of delight, 

Unknown to mortal tread ! 

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd 

With heaven's ambrosial dew, 
From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, 

That shed fresh sweets for you! 

And what of life remains for me, 

I'll pass in sober ease ; 
Half-pleased, contented will 1 be, 

Content but half to please. 



ROBERT LOWTH. 1710—1787. 



Robert Lowth, a distinguished prelate in the English charch, was born 
In the year 1710. He was educated at Winchester School, and at Oxford, 1 
and after leaving the university he entered into the church, in which he rose 
by regular gradations, till he became, in 1777, Bishop of London. He died in 
1787, in the seventy-seventh year of his age. 

The writings by which Bishop Lowth is most known, are, " A Short Intro- 
duction to English Grammar," for many years a text-book in the schools and 
colleges in England and in this country ; his " Translation of the Prophet 
Isaiah," with a large body of valuable notes ; and his " Lectures on the Poe- 

1 "I was educated," says Bishop Lowth, "in the University of Oxford. I enjoyed all the advan- 
tages, both public and private, which that famous seat of learning so largely affords. I spent many 
years in that illustrious society, in a well-regulated course of useful discipline and studies, and in the 
agreeable and improving commerce of gentlemen and of scholars ; in a society where emulation 
without envy, ambition without jealousy, contention without animosity, incited industry and awa- 
kened genius; where a liberal pursuit of knowledge, and a genuine freedom of thought, were raised, 
encouraged, and pushed forward by example, by commendation, and by authority. I breathed the 
same atmosphere that the Hookers, the Chillingworths, and the Lockes had breathed before 
whose benevolence and humanity were as extensive as their vast genius and comprehensive know 
ledge." 

With reference to this encomium of Lowth upon his Alma Mater, Gibbon, the historian, makes tht 
following beautiful remark : "The expression of gratitude is a virtue and a pleasure : a liberal mind 
will delight to cherish and celebrate the memory of its parents; and the teachers of science abb 

THE PARENTS OF THE MIND." 

2 U 57 



074 LOWTH. [GEOKaE ITI. 

try of the Hebrews." The latter is a work which unites a depth of learning 
to a discriminating criticism and a refined taste, in a very unusual degree ; 
and while it is of inestimable value to the professed Biblical student, it affords 
equal pleasure and instruction to the general reader. From the first Lecture 
we extract the following just and tasteful remarks, upon 



PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY COMPARED AS SOURCES OF PLEASURE AND 
INSTRUCTION. 

Poetry is commonly understood to have two objects in view, 
namely, advantage and pleasure, or rather a union of both. I 
wish those who have furnished us with this definition had rather 
proposed utility as its ultimate object, and pleasure as the means 
by which that end may be effectually accomplished. The phi- 
losopher and the poet, indeed, seem principally to differ in the 
means by which they pursue the same end. Each sustains the 
character of a preceptor, which the one is thought best to support, 
if he teach with accuracy, with subtlety, and with perspicuity ; 
the other with splendor, harmony, and elegance. The one makes 
his appeal to reason only, independent of the passions ; the other 
addresses the reason in such a manner as even to engage the pas- 
sions on his side. The one proceeds to virtue and truth by the 
nearest and most compendious ways ; the other leads to the same 
point through certain deflections and deviations, by a winding but 
pleasanter path. It is the part of the former so to describe and 
explain these objects, that we must necessarily become acquainted 
with them ; it is the part of the latter so to dress and adorn them, 
that of our own accord we must love and embrace them. 

I therefore lay it down as a fundamental maxim, that Poetry is 
useful, 1 chiefly because it is agreeable ; and should I, as we are 
apt to do, attribute too much to my favorite occupation, I trust 
Philosophy will forgive me when I add, that the writings of the 
poet are more useful than those of the philosopher, inasmuch as 
they are more agreeable. To illustrate this position by a well- 
known example : — Who can believe that even the most tasteless 
could peruse the writings on agriculture, either of the learned 
Varro or of Columella, an author by no means deficient in ele- 

1 I cannot but insert here the following very fine remarks of Leigh Hunt, on the Utility of Poetry. 
" No man recognises the worth of utility more than the poet ; he only desires that the meaning of th« 
term may not come short of its greatness, and exclude the noblest necessities of his fellow-creatures. 
He is quite as much pleased, for instance, with the facilities for rapid conveyance afforded him by the 
railroad, as the dullest continer of its advantages to that single idea, or as the greatest two-idead 
man who varies that single idea with hugging himself on his 'buttons' or his good dinner. But he 
sees also the beauty of the country through which he passes, of the towns, of the heavens, of the 
steam-engine itself, thundering and fuming along like a magic horse; of the affections that are car- 
rying perhaps, half the passengers on their journey, nay, of those of the great two-idead man ; and, 
oeyond all this, he discerns the incalculable amount of good, and knowledge, and refinement, ana 
mutual consideration, which this wonderful invention is fitted to circulate over the globe, perhaps to 
the ttisDlacement of war Itself, and certainly to the diffusion of millions of enjoyments." 



1760-1820.] lowth. 675 

gance, with the same pleasure and attention as that most delight- 
ful and most perfect work, the Georgics of Virgil ? a work in 
which he has equalled the most respectable writers in the solidity 
of his matter, and has greatly excelled the most elegant in the 
incredible harmony of his numbers. 

But if it be manifest, even in authors who directly profess 
improvement and advantage, that those will most efficaciously 
instruct who afford most entertainment ; the same will be still 
more apparent in those who, dissembling the intention of instruc- 
tion, exhibit only the blandishments of pleasure ; and while they 
treat of the most important things, of all the principles of moral 
action, all the offices of life, yet laying aside the severity of the 
preceptor, adduce at once all the decorations of elegance, and all 
the attractions of amusement : who display, as in a picture, the 
actions, the manners, the pursuits and passions of men ; and by 
the force of imitation and fancy, by the harmony of numbers, by 
the taste and variety of imagery, captivate the affections of the 
reader, and imperceptibly, or perhaps reluctantly, impel him to 
the pursuit of virtue. Such is the real purpose of heroic poetry ; 
such is the noble effect produced by the perusal of Homer And 
who so thoughtless, or so callous, as not to feel incredible pleasure 
in that most agreeable occupation ? Who is not moved, astonished, 
enraptured, by the inspiration of that most sublime genius ? Who 
so inanimate as not to see, not to feel inscribed, or as it wtre im- 
printed upon his heart, his most excellent maxims concerning 
human life and manners ? From philosophy a few cold precepts 
may be deduced; in history, some dull and spiritless examples of 
manners may be found : here we have the energetic voice of 
Virtue herself, here we behold her animated form. Poetry ad- 
dresses her precepts not to the reason alone ; she calls the pas- 
sions to her aid : she not only exhibits examples, but infixes them 
in the mind. She softens the wax with her peculiar ardor, and 
renders it more plastic to the artist's hand. Thus does Horace 
most truly and most justly apply this commendation to the poet& 

What's fair, and false, and right, these bards describe, 
Better and plainer than the Stoic tribe : — 

Plainer, or more completely, because they do not perplex then 
disciples with the dry detail of parts and definitions, but so per 
fectly and so accurately delineate, by examples of every kind, the 
forms of the human passions and habits, the principles of social 
and civilized life, that he who from the schools of philosophy 
should turn to the representations of Homer, would feel himself 
transported from a narrow and intricate path to an extensive and 
flourishing field : — Better, because the poet teaches not by maxims 
and precepts, and in the dull sententious form ; but by the har- 



676 LOWTH. [GEORGE III. 

rnony of verse, by the beauty of imagery, by the ingenuity of the 
fable, by the exactness of imitation, he allures and interests the 
mind of the reader, he fashions it to habits of virtue, and in a man- 
ner informs it with the spirit of integrity itself. 

But if from the Heroic we turn to the Tragic Muse, to which 
Aristotle indeed assigns the preference, because of the true and 
perfect imitation, we shall yet more clearly evince the superiority 
of poetry over philosophy, on the principle of its being more agree- 
able. Tragedy is, in truth, no other than philosophy introduced 
upon the stage, retaining all its natural properties, remitting no- 
thing of its native gravity, but assisted and embellished by other 
favoring circumstances. What point, for instance, of moral disci- 
pline have the tragic writers of Greece left untouched or una- 
dorned ? What duty of life, what principle of political economy, 
what motive or precept for the government of the passions, what 
commendation of virtue is there, which they have not treated of 
with fulness, variety, and learning ? The moral of iEschylus (not 
only a poet, but a Pythagorean) will ever be admired. Nor were 
Sophocles and Euripides less illustrious for the reputation of wis- 
dom ; the latter of whom was the disciple of Socrates and Anaxa- 
goras, and was known among his friends by the title of the dramatic 
philosopher. In these authors, surely, the allurements of poetry 
afforded some accession to the empire of philosophy : nor indeed 
has any man arrived at the summit of poetic fame, who did not 
previously lay the foundation of his art in true philosophy. 

But there are other species of poetry which also deserve to par- 
take in the commendation ; and first the Ode, 

" With thoughts that breathe, and words that burn ;" 

which, though in some respects inferior to what are called the 
higher species of poetry, yields to none in force, ardor, and some- 
times even in dignity and solemnity. Its amazing power in di- 
recting the passions, in forming the manners, in maintaining civil 
life, and particularly in exciting and cherishing that generous 
elevation of sentiment on which the very existence of public virtue 
seems to depend, will be sufficiently apparent by only contemplat- 
ing those monuments of genius which Greece has bequeathed to 
posterity. If we examine the poems of Pindar, how exquisite 
must have been the pleasure, how vivid the sensation to the 
Greek, whose ordinary amusement it was to sing, or hear them 
sung ! For, this kind of entertainment was not confined to per- 
sons of taste and learning, but had grown into general use. When 
he heard his gods, his heroes, his ancestors received into the num 
ber of the gods, celebrated in a manner so glorious, so divine , 
would not his bosom glow with the desire of fame, with the most 
fervid emulation of virtue, with a patriotism, immoderate perhaps, 



XT60-1820.] lowth. 677 

but honorable and useful in the highest degree ? Is it wonderful, 
that he should be so elevated with this greatness of mind, (shall I 
call it ?) or rather insolence and pride, as to esteem every other 
people mean, barbarous, and contemptible, in comparison with 
himself and his own countrymen? It is certainly unnecessary to 
remind the scholar, that in the sacred games which afforded so 
much support to the warlike virtue of Greece, no inconsiderable 
share of dignity and esteem resulted from the verses of the poets ; 
nor did the Olympic crown exhibit a more ample reward to the 
candidates for victory, than the encomium of Pindar or Stesi- 
chorus. What a spirited defender of the laws and constitution 
of his country is Alcasus ! what a vigorous opposer of tyrants ! 
who consecrated equally his sword and his lyre on the altar of 
freedom! whose prophetic muse, ranging through every region, 
acted as the sacred guardian, not for the present moment only, 
but for future ages ; not of his own city alone, but of the whole 
commonwealth of Greece. Poetry such as this, so vehement, so 
animated, is certainly to be esteemed highly efficacious, as well 
in exciting the human mind to virtue, as in purifying it from every 
mean and vicious propensity ; but still more especially does it con- 
duce to cherish and support that vigor of soul, that generous temper 
and spirit, which is both the offspring and guardian of liberty. 

Thus far poetry must be allowed to stand eminent among the 
other liberal arts ; inasmuch as it refreshes the mind when it is 
fatigued, soothes it when it is agitated, relieves and invigorates it 
when it is depressed ; as it elevates the thoughts to the admira- 
tion of what is beautiful, what is becoming, what is great and 
noble : nor is it enough to say, that it delivers the precepts of 
virtue in the most agreeable manner ; it insinuates or instils into 
the soul the very principles of morality itself. Moreover, since 
the desire of glory, innate in man, appears to be the most power- 
ful incentive to great and heroic actions, it is the peculiar function 
of poetry to improve this bias of our nature, and thus to cherish 
and enliven the embers of virtue : and since one of the principal 
employments of poetry consists in the celebration of great and 
virtuous actions, in transmitting to posterity the examples of the 
bravest and most excellent men, and in consecrating their names 
to immortality ; this praise is certainly its due, that while it forms 
the mind to habits of rectitude by its precepts, directs it by ex- 
amples, excites and animates it by its peculiar force, it has also 
the distinguished honor of distributing to virtue the most ample 
and desirable rewards of its labors. 

But, after all, we shall think more humbly of poetry than it 
deserves, unless we direct our attention to that quarter where its 
importance is most eminently conspicuous; unless we contemplate 
it as employed on sacred subjects, and in subservience to religion. 

57* 



678 LOWTH. [GEORGE HI. 

This indeed appears to have been the original office and destina- 
tion of poetry ; and this it still so happily performs, that in all 
other cases it seems out of character, as if intended for this pur- 
pose alone. In other instances poetry appears to want the assist- 
ance of art, but in this to shine forth with all its natural splendor, 
or rather to be animated by that inspiration, which, on other occa- 
sions, is spoken of without being felt. These observations are 
remarkably exemplified in the Hebrew poetry, than which the 
human mind can conceive nothing more elevated, more beautiful, 
or more elegant ; in which the almost ineffable sublimity of the 
subject is fully equalled by the energy of the language and the 
dignity of the style. And it is worthy observation, that as some 
of these writings exceed in antiquity the fabulous ages of Greece, 
in sublimity they are superior to the most finished productions of 
that polished people. Thus, if the actual origin of poetry be in- 
quired after, it must of necessity be referred to religion. Of this 
origin poetry even yet exhibits no obscure indications, since she 
ever embraces a divine and sacred subject with a kind of filial 
tenderness and affection. To the sacred haunts of religion she 
delights to resort as to her native soil: there she most willingly 
inhabits, and there she flourishes in all her pristine beauty and 
vigor. 

SUBLIMITY OF THE PROPHET ISAIAH. 

Whoever wishes to understand the full force and excellence ot 
the figure of Personification, as well as the elegant use of it in the 
Hebrew ode, must apply to Isaiah, whom I do not scruple to pro- 
nounce the sublimest of poets. He will there find, in one short 
poem, examples of almost every form of the Prosopopoeia, and in- 
deed of all that constitutes the sublime in composition. I trust it 
will not be thought unseasonable to refer immediately to the pas- 
sage itself, and to remark a few of the principal excellencies. 1 

The prophet, after predicting the liberation of the Jews from 
their severe captivity in Babylon, and their restoration to their 
own country, introduces them as reciting a kind of triumphal 
song upon the fall of the Babylonish monarch, replete with 
imagery, and with the most elegant and animated personifications. 
A sudden exclamation, expressive of their joy and admiration on 
the unexpected revolution in their affairs, and the destruction of 
tbeir tyrants, forms the exordium of the poem. The earth itself 
triumphs with the inhabitants thereof; the fir-trees and the cedars 
of Lebanon (under which images the parabolic style frequently 
delineates the kings and princes of the Gentiles) exult with joy, 
and persecute with contemptuous reproaches the humbled power 
of a ferocious enemy :— 

l Jsa. xiv. 4—27. 



1760-1820.] lowth. 679 

The whole earth is at rest, is quiet ; they burst forth into a joyful shout 
Even the fir-trees rejoice over thee, the cedars of Lebanon : 
Since thou art fallen, no feller hath come up against us. 

This is followed by a bold and animated personification of Hades, 
or the infernal regions. Hades excites his inhabitants, the ghosts 
of princes, and the departed spirits of kings : they rise imme- 
diately from their seats, and proceed to meet the monarch of 
Babylon ; they insult and deride him, and comfort themselves 
with the view of his calamity : — 

Art thou, even thou too, become weak as we ? Art thou made like unto us ? 
Is then thy pride brought down to the grave? the sound of thy sprightly 
instruments ? 

Is the vermin become thy couch, and the earth-worm thy covering ? 

Again, the Jewish people are the speakers, in an exclamation 
after the manner of a funeral lamentation, which indeed the whole 
form of this composition exactly imitates. The remarkable fall 
of this powerful monarch is thus beautifully illustrated : — 

How art thou fallen from heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning ! 
Art cut down from earth, thou that didst subdue the nations! 

He himself is at length brought upon the stage, boasting in the 
most pompous terms of his own power, which furnishes the poet 
with an excellent opportunity of displaying the unparalleled 
misery of his downfall. Some persons are introduced, who find 
the dead carcass of the king of Babylon cast out and exposed : 
they attentively contemplate it, and at last scarcely know it to oe 
his : — 

Is this the man that made the earth to tremble; that shook tin kingdoms? 
That made the world like a desert; that destroyed the cities? 

They reproach him with being denied the common rites if sepul- 
ture, on account of the cruelty and atrocity of his conduct ; they 
execrate his name, his offspring, and their posterity. A solemn 
address, as of the Deity himself, closes the scene ; and he de- 
nounces against the king of Babylon, his posterity, and even 
against the city which was the seat of their cruelty, perpetual 
destruction ; and confirms the immutability of his own counsels 
by the solemnity of an oath. 

How forcible is this imagery, how diversified, how sublime ! 
how elevated the diction, the figures, the sentiments ! The Jew- 
ish nation, the cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of departed kings, 
the Babylonish monarch, the travellers who find his corpse, and 

1 This is, I think, the most sublime image I have ever seen conveyed in so few words. The apt- 
ness of the allegory to express the ruin of a powerful monarch by the fall of a bright star from hea 
ven, strikes the mind in the most forcible manner; and the poetical beauty of the passage is greatly 
heightened by the personification, " Son of the morning." Whoever does not relish such painting as 
this is not only destitute of poetical taste, but of the common feelings o r himjanity. 



680 WARTON. [GEORGE III. 

last of all Jehovah himself, are the characters which support this 
beautiful lyric drama. One continued action is kept up, or rather 
a series of interesting actions are connected together in an incom- 
parable whole. This, indeed, is the principal and distinguished 
excellence of the sublimer ode, and is displayed in its utmost per- 
fection in this poem of Isaiah, which may be considered as one 
of the most ancient, and certainly the most finished specimen of 
that species of composition which has been transmitted to us. 
The personifications here are frequent, yet not confused ; bold, 
yet not improbable : a free, elevated, and truly divine spirit per- 
vades the whole ; nor is there any thing wanting in this ode to 
defeat its claim to the character of perfect beauty and sublimity. 
If, indeed, I may be indulged in the free declaration of my own 
sentiments on this occasion, I do not know a single instance in the 
whole compass of Greek and Roman poetry, which, in every 
excellence of composition, can be said to equal, or even to 
approach it. 



THOMAS WARTON. 1728—1790. 

Thomas Wahton, the learned author of the " History of English Poetry," 
was born at Basingstoke 1 in 1728, of a family remarkable for its talent. His 
father, Rev. Thomas Warton, was professor of poetry at Oxford, and died in 
1745: and his brother Joseph was the author of the "Essay on the Writings 
and Genius of Pope." Thomas was educated at Cambridge, and early ac- 
quired distinction by the superiority of his poetical productions. In 1754 he 
published his " Observations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser," which at 
once established his reputation for true poetic taste, and for extensive and 
varied learning. In 1757 he was elected to the professorship of poetry in 
Pembroke College, the duties of which office he discharged with remarkable 
ability and success. In 1774 he published his first volume of "The History 
of English Poetry:" a second volume appeared in 1778, and a third in 1781. 
Into this very elaborate performance Warton poured the accumulated stores 
of a lifetime of reading and reflection : the survey he has given us of his 
subject is, accordingly, both eminently comprehensive in its scope, and rich 
and varied in its details : and as respects early English literature, it is a re- 
pository of information altogether unapproached in extent and abundance bj 
any other single work of the same kind in the language. The work is, how- 
ever, brought down to but very little beyond the commencement of the reign 
of Elizabeth, as he died while engaged in it, in May, 1790. It is deeply to 
be regretted that he had not carried the history of our literature through the 
teign of Elizabeth, as no one has presumed to continue the work ; for to con- 
tinue it with like success, would require the union of like powers — a combi- 
nation rarely given to man. 2 

* (n Southamocon county, about 45 miles W. S. W. of London. 

2 " His consummate taste and discriminating judgment may on all occasions be implicitly trusted " 

Sir Eyertov Brydys. 



1760-1820.] waeton. 681 

THE HAMLET. AN ODE. 

The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled 
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild, 
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, 
For splendid care, and guilty gain ! 

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam 
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, 
They rove abroad in ether blue, 
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ; 
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, 
That nodding shades a craggy dell. 

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, 
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear : 
On green untrodden banks they view 
The hyacinth's neglected hue : 
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, 
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds 5 
And startle from her ashen spray, 
Across the glen, the screaming jay : 
Each native charm their steps explore 
Of Solitude's sequester'd store. 

For them the moon with cloudless ray 
Mounts, to illume their homeward way: 
Their weary spirits to relieve, 
The meadow's incense breathe at eve. 
No riot mars the simple fare, 
That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: 
But when the curfew's measured roar 
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, 
Has echoed from the distant town, 
They wish no beds of cygnet-down, 
No trophied canopies, to close 
Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 

Their little sons, who spread the bloom 
Of health around the clay-built room, 
Or through the primrosed coppice stray, 
Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, 
Or drive afield the tardy kine ; 
Or hasten from the sultry hill, 
To loiter at the shady rill ; 
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, 
To rob the raven's ancient nest. 

Their humble porch with honey'd flowers 
The curling woodbine's shade embowers: 
From the small garden's thymy mound 
Their bees in busy swarms resound : 
Nor fell Disease, before his time, 
Hastes to consume life's golden prime : 



682 WARTON. [GEORGE HI. 

But when their temples long have wore 
The silver crown of tresses hoar, 
As studious still calm peace to keep, 
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. 

THE CRUSADE. AN ODE. 

Bound for holy Palestine, 
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine, 
All in azure steel array'd : 
O'er the wave our weapons play*d, 
And made the dancing billows glow; 
High upon the trophied prow, 
Many a warrior-minstrel swung 
His sounding harp, and boldly sung : 

" Syrian virgins, wail and weep, 
English Richard l ploughs the deep ! 
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy 
From distant towers, with anxious eye, 
The radiant range of shield and lance 
Down Damascus' hills advance : 
From Sion's turrets, as afar 
Ye ken the march of Europe's war ! 
Saladin, 2 thou paynim 3 king, 
From Albion's isle revenge we bring ! 
On Aeon's 4 spiry citadel, 
Though to the gale thy banners swell, 
Pictured with the silver moon, 
England shall end thy glory soon! 
In vain to break our firm array, 
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray: 
Those sounds our rising fury fan : 
English Richard in the van, 
On to victory we go, — 
A vaunting infidel the foe !" 

Blondel 5 led the tuneful band, 
And swept the lyre with glowing hand. 
Cypress, from her rocky mound, 
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd, 
Far along the smiling main 
Echoed the prophetic strain. 

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth 
That gave a murder 'd Saviour birth ! 
Then with ardor fresh endued, 
Thus the solemn song renew'd: 

" Lo, the toilsome voyage past, 
Heaven's favor d hills appear at last ! 
Object of our holy vow, 
"We tread the Tyrian valleys now. 



1 Richa i I., surnamed, from his valor, Coeur de Lion. 

2 The Cfiet of the Mohammedans that defended Palestine against the Crusaders. 
8 Pagan; it means here the professor of a false religion. 

4 Anciently called Ptolemais ; now St. Jean d'Acre. 
» The ftithful minstrel of King Richard. 



1760-1820.] warton. 683 

From Carmel's almond-shaded steep 
We feel the cheering fragrance creep : 
O'er Engaddi's 1 shrubs of balm 
Waves the date-empurpled palm 5 
See Lebanon's aspiring head 
Wide his immortal umbrage spread ! 
Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar, 
Wet with our Redeemers gore ! 
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn, 
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn; 
Your ravish'd honors to restore 
Fearless we climb this hostile shore ! 
And, thou, the sepulchre of God, 
By mocking pagans rudely trod, 
Bereft of every awful ite, 

And quench'd thy lam^ s that beam'd so blight 
For thee, from Britain's distant coast, 
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host! 
Aloft in his heroic hand, 
Blazing like the beacon's brand, 
O'er the far-affrighted fields, 
Resistless Kaliburn 2 he wields. 
Proud Saracen, pollute no more 
The shrines by martyrs built of yore ! 
From each wild mountain's tra< kless crown 
In vain thy gloomy castles frown : 
Thy battering-engines, huge and high, 
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy ; 
And, rolling in terrific state, 
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate. 
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp, 
Amid the moonlight vapors damp, 
Thy necromantic forms, in vain, 
• Haunt us on the tented plain : 
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt, 
Ashtaroth 3 and Termagaunt! 4 
With many a demon, pale of hue, 
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew 
That drops from Macon's 5 sooty tree, 
'Mid the dread grove of ebony. 
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell, 
The Christian's holy courage quell. 

" Salem, in ancient majesty 
Arise, and lift thee to the sky ! 
Soon on the battlements divine 
Shall wave the badge of Constant] ne. 
Ye barons, to the sun unfold 
Our cross, with crimson wove and gold !" 



1 A mountain of Palestine. 

2 The celebrated sword of the British king, Arthur, said to have come into the possession of King 
Richard, and to have been given by him, as a present of inestimable value, to Tanci-ed, King of 
Sicily. 3 a. Syrian goddess. 

4 The ignorant old chroniclers believed that the Mohammedans were idolaters, and that they won 
shipped some deity named Termagaunt. 
6 This alludes to an oriental superstition respecting a poisonous tree. 



684 Robertson. [george in. 



WILLIAM ROBERTSON. 1721—1793. 

William Robertson, the celebrated historian, was born at Bosthwick, in 
the county of Mid-Lothian, Scotland, on the 8th of September, 1721. At the 
early age of twelve he obtained admission into the university, where his sub- 
sequent progress in learning was rapid, in proportion to the astonishing ac- 
quirements of his childhood. On entering the ministry of the established 
church of Scotland, he performed the duties of his station with exemplary 
diligence; and in 1759, by the publication of the "History of Scotland, '" he 
commenced that series of admirable histories, which have justly placed him 
among the very first historical writers of his country. In 1769 he published 
his « History of Charles V.," which raised his then increasing reputation still 
higher, and which, from the general interest belonging to the subject, was very 
popular. The introductory part consists of an able sketch of the political and 
social state of Europe at the time of the accession of Charles V., 1 a most im- 
portant period, which forms the connection between the middle ages and the 
history of modern European society and politics. In 1777 he published his 
" History of America," and in 1791, "An Historical Disquisition concerning 
the Knowledge which the Ancients had of India." After spending a life of 
equal piety, usefulness, and honor, he died on the 11th of June, 1793. 

Most of the works of Dr. Robertson relate to that important period, when 
the countries of Europe were beginning to form constitutions, and act upon 
the political systems which were for centuries preserved. His style is easy and 
flowing, his language correct, his opinions enlightened, his investigation dili- 
gent, and his expressions temperate. Hume, notwithstanding the difference 
of their religious opinions, greatly extolled his History of Scotland ; and Gib- 
bon has borne ample testimony both to his accuracy and his style. 2 

RESIGNATION OF CHARLES V. 

Charles resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a 
solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction ; and to 
perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp, as 
might leave an indelible impression on the minds, not only of his 
subjects, but of his successor. With this view, he called Philip 
out of England, where the peevish temper of his queen, which in- 
creased with her despair of having issue, rendered him extremely 
unhappy ; and the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of 
obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having assembled the 
states of the Low Countries, at Brussels, on the 25th of October, 
1555, Charles seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of 

1 Charles V., Emperor of Germany, (1519—1555,) and King of Spain, (1516—1555,) was the most 
Influential and prominent monarch of the period in which he flourished. Some of the sovereigns 
contemporary with him were, Henry VIII. of England, (1509—1547,) Francis I. of France, (1515 — 
1547,) Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, (1523—1560,) and Soliman the Magnificent, of the Ottoman Empire, 
(1520—1566,) under whom the Turkish power attained its highest pitch. 

2 "Thft perfect composition, the nervous language, the well-turned periods of Dr. Robertson, ui' 
flamea me to the ambitious hope that I might one day tread in bis footsteps: the calm philosophy, 
ttie careless, inimitable beauties of his friend and rival, Hume, often forced me to close Uie volume 
with a mixed sensation of delight and despair."— Gibbon's Memoirs, Chap, v 



1760-1820.] Robertson. 685 

state ; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other 
his sister, the Glueen of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands ; 
with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of 
the empire, standing behind him. The president of the council 
of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his in- 
tention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He 
then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles sur- 
rendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and 
authority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there 
from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to 
transfer to Philip, his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same 
loyalty and zeal which they had manifested, during so long a 
course of years, in support of his government. 

Charles then rose from his seat, and, leaning on the shoulder 
of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without 
support, he addressed himself to the audience, and, from a paper 
which he held in hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted 
with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he 
had undertaken and performed since the commencement of his 
administration. He observed, that, from the seventeenth year of 
his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public 
objects ; reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his 
ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure : that, 
either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine 
times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the 
Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had 
made eleven vo}^ages by sea: that while his health permitted him 
to discharge his duty, and the vigor of his constitution was equal, 
in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive 
dominions, he had never shunned labor, nor repined under fatigue : 
that now, when his health was broken, and his vigor exhausted by 
the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admo- 
nished him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning as to retain 
the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to pro- 
tect his subjects, or to render them happy : that, instead of a 
sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave 
them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and 
who added to the vigor of youth all the attention and sagacity of 
maturer years : that if, during the course of a long administration 
he had committed any material error in government ; or if, under 
the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention 
which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neg- 
lected or injured any of his subjects ; he now implored their 
forgiveness : that for his part, he should ever retain a grateful 
sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the re- 
membrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his 

58 



686 ROBERTSON. [GEORGE III. 

sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services ; 
and, in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his 
ardent wishes for their welfare. 

Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed 
his father's hand, " If," says he, " I had left you, by my death, 
this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions 
some regard would have been justly due to my memory, on tha* 
account : but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I migh* 
still have retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions oj 
thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense ; and shali 
consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your 
love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your 
gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous ad- 
ministration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I this day 
give of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are 
worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an 
inviolable regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its 
purity ; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; en 
croach not on the rights and privileges of your people ; and, if th< 
time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity 
of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, 
that you can resign your sceptre to him with as much satisfaction 
as I give up mine to you." 

As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his sub- 
jects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, ex- 
hausted, and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordi- 
nary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into 
tears ; some, from admiration of his magnanimity ; others, softened 
by the expression of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his 
people ; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a 
sovereign who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native coun- 
try, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. 

A few weeks afterwards, Charles, in an assembly no less splen- 
did, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to his son 
the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, 
both in the Old and in the New World. Of all these vast posses- 
sions he reserved nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a 
hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and 
to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. 

The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monastery of 
St. Justus, in the province of Estramadura. It was seated in a 
vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded 
by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of 
the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed 
the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months 
before his resignation he had sent an architect thither to add a new 



1760-1820.] bobertson. 687 

.apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation ; but he gave 
strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suited 
his present situation rather than his former dignity. It consisted 
only of six rooms ; four of them in the form of friars' cells, with 
naked walls : the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung 
with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. 
They were all on a level with the ground, with a door on one 
side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, 
and which he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate 
them with his own hands. 



COLUMBUS DISCOVERING AMERICA. 

The presages of discovering land were now so numerous and 
promising, that he deemed them infallible. For some days the 
sounding line reached the bottom, and the soil which it brought 
up indicated land to be at no great distance. The flocks of birds 
increased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such 
land-birds as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. 
The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to 
have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of timber artificially 
carved. The sailors aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a 
tree with red berries perfectly fresh. The clouds around the set- 
ting sun assumed a new appearance ; the air was more mild and 
warm, and during night the wind became unequal and variable. 
From all these symptoms Columbus was so confident of being near 
land, that on the evening of the eleventh of October, after public 
prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the ships 
to lie to, keeping strict watch lest they should be driven ashore in 
the night. During this interval of suspense and expectation, no 
man shut his eyes ; all kept upon deck, gazing intently towards 
that quarter where they expected to discover the land, which had 
so long been the object of their wishes. 

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the 
forecastle, observed a light at a distance, and privately pointed it 
out to Pedro Guttierez, a page of the queen's wardrobe. Guttierez 
perceived it, and calling to Salcedo, comptroller of the fleet, all 
three saw it in motion, as if it were carried from place to place. 
A little after midnight, the joyful sound of land ! land J was heard 
from the Pinta, which kept always ahead of the other ships. But 
having been so often deceived by fallacious appearances, every 
man was now become slow of belief, and waited in all the anguish 
of uncertainty and impatience for the return of day. As soon as 
morning dawned, all doubts and fears were dispelled. From every 
ship an island was seen about two leagues to the north, whoso flat 
and verdant fields, well stored with w~>od, and watered with many 



688 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. 

rivulets, presented the aspect of a delightful country. The crew 
of the Pinta instantly began the Te Deum, as a hymn of thanks- 
giving to God, and were joined by those of the other ships, with 
tears of joy and transports of congratulation. This office of grati- 
tude to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their com- 
mander. They threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, with 
feelings of self-condemnation, mingled with reverence. They im- 
plored him to pardon their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, 
which had created him so much unnecessary disquiet, and had so 
often obstructed the prosecution of his well-concerted plan ; and 
passing, in the warmth of their admiration, from one extreme to 
another, they now pronounced the man whom they had so lately 
reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired by Heaven with 
sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to accomplish a 
design so far beyond the ideas and conception of all former ages. 

As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned and 
armed. They rowed towards the island with their colors dis- 
played, with warlike music, and other martial pomp. As they 
approached the coast, they saw it covered with a multitude of 
people, whom the novelty of the spectacle had drawn together, 
whose attitudes and gestures expressed wonder and astonishment 
at the strange objects which presented themselves to their view. 
Columbus was the first European who set foot on the new world 
which he had discovered. He landed in a rich dress, and with a 
naked sword in his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down 
they all kissed the ground which they had so long desired to see. 
They next erected a crucifix, and, prostrating themselves before it, 
returned thanks to God for conducting their voyage to such a 
happy issue. They then took solemn possession of the country 
for the crown of Castile and Leon, with all the formalities which 
the Portuguese were accustomed to observe in acts of this kind in 
their new discoveries. 



EDWARD GIBBON. 1737—1794. 



Of the life of Edward Gibbon, the learned author of " The History of the 
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," it will not be necessary for us to 
?ive any sketch of our own, as he himself has given us such an admirable 
one, in his work entitled, " Memoirs of My Life and Writings." l From it, 
we make the following extracts, which, meagre as they are, will but serve, 
v\ e trust, to excite in those of our readers who have not seen it, sufficient curi 
o_ity to desire to make themselves familiar with the work itself. 1 

- The writer of a very able criticism on Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, in the Quarterly Review, 
(vol xii. p. 375,) thus felicitously and j ustly characterizes the life of Gibbon:— "It is, perhaps, the 
best specimen of Autobiography in the English language. Descending from the lofty level of his 



1760-1820.] gibbon. 689 



HIS BIRTH. 

I was born at Putney, in the county of Surrey, the 27th of 
April, in the year one thousand seven hundred and thirty- 
seven; the first child of the marriage of Edward Gibbon, Esq., 
and of Judith Porten. My lot might have been that of a slave, 
a savage, or a peasant ; nor can I reflect without pleasure on 
the bounty of Nature, which cast my birth in a free and civi- 
lized country, in an age of science and philosophy, in a family of 
honorable rank, and decently endowed with the gifts of fortune. 
* * So feeble was my constitution, so precarious my life, that, 
in the baptism of my brothers, my father's prudence successively 
repeated my Christian name of Edward, that, in case of the de- 
parture of the eldest son, this patronymic appellation might be 
still perpetuated in the family. To preserve and rear so frail a 
being, the most tender assiduity was scarcely sufficient ; the care 
of my mind was too frequently neglected for the care of my health : 
compassion always suggested an excuse for the indulgence of the 
master, or the idleness of the pupil; and the chain of my educa- 
tion was broken, as often as I was recalled from the school of 
learning to the bed of sickness. 

HIS EDUCATION. DEATH OF HIS MOTHER. 

As soon as the use of speech had prepared my infant reason 
for the admission of knowledge, I was taught the arts of read- 
ing, writing, and arithmetic. In my childhood I was praised 
for the readiness with which I could multiply and divide, by 
memory alone, two sums of several figures : such praise encou- 
raged my youthful talent. 

At the age of seven I was delivered into the hands of Mr. John 
Kirkly, who exercised, about eighteen months, the office of do- 
mestic tutor. In my ninth year I was sent to Kingston-upon- 
Thames, to a school of about seventy boys, which was kept by 
Dr. Wooddeson. My studies were too frequently interrupted by 
sickness ; and after a residence here of nearly two years, I was 
recalled, December, 1747, by my mother's death. I was too 
young to feel the importance of my loss ; and the image of her 
person and conversation is faintly imprinted in my memory. My 
poor father was inconsolable. I can never forget the scene of our 

History, and relaxing the stately march which he maintains throughout that work, into a more natu- 
ral and easy pace, this enchanting writer, with an ease, spirit, and vigor peculiar to himself, con- 
ducts his readers through a sickly childhood, a neglected and desultory education, and a youth wasted 
in the unpromising and unscholarlike occupation of a militia officer, to the period when he resolutel) 
applied the energies of his genius to a severe course of voluntary study, w hich in the spnee of \ few 
years rendered him a consummate master of Roman antiquity, and lastly produced the 'History of 
the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.' " 

2 X 58* 



690 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. 

first interview, jome weeks after the fatal event; the awful silence, 
the room hung with black, the mid-day tapers, his sighs and 
tears ; his praises of my mother, a saint in heaven ; his solemn 
adjuration that I would cherish her memory and imitate her vir- 
tues ; and the fervor with which he kissed and blessed me as the 
sole surviving pledge of their loves. 

In his twelfth year he went to Westminster School, where he resided for 
three years, and then went to Oxford. His reading while here was very mul- 
tifarious and extensive, but, turning Papist, his father removed him at the age 
of sixteen and sent him to Lausanne, in Switzerland, and placed him under 
the tuition of a Calvinistic minister, by the name of Pavilliard. Here he 
spent five years, during which time he made astonishing proficiency in his 
studies, and he ever spoke of his excellent instructor in terms of the highest 
affection and respect. He thus speaks of 



HIS FIRST LOVE. 

I hesitate, from the apprehension of ridicule, when I approach 
the delicate subject of my early love. By this word I do not 
mean the polite attention, the gallantry, without hope or design, 
which has originated in the spirit of chivalry, and is inter- 
woven with the texture of French manners. I understand by 
this passion the union of desire, friendship, and tenderness, which 
is inflamed by a single female, which prefers her to the rest ot 
her sex, and which seeks her possession as the supreme or the 
sole happiness of our being. I need not blush at recollecting the 
object of my choice ; and though my love was disappointed of suc- 
cess, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a 
pure and exalted sentiment. The personal attractions of Made- 
moiselle Susan Curchod were embellished by the virtues and 
talents of the mind. Her fortune was humble, but her family was 
respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred her 
religion to her country. The profession of her father did not ex- 
tinguish the moderation and philosophy of his temper, and he 
lived content, with a small salary and laborious duty, in the ob- 
scure lot of minister of Crassy, in the mountains that separate the 
Pays de Vaud from the county of Burgundy. In the solitude of 
a sequestered village he bestowed a liberal and even learned edu- 
cation on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her pro- 
ficiency in the sciences and languages ; and in her short visits to 
some relations at Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and erudition of 
Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. 
The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity ; I saw and 
loved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversa- 
tion, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first 
sudden emotion was fortified by the habits and knowledge of a 



1760-1820.] gibbon. 691 

more familiar acquaintance. She permitted me to make her two 
or three visits at her father's house. I passed some happy days 
there, in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honorably 
encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity 
of youth no longer fluttered in her bosom ; she listened to the 
voice of truth and passion ; and I might presume to hope that I 
had made some impression on a virtuous heart. At Crassy and 
Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity : but on my return to 
England, I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this 
strange alliance, and that without his consent I was myself desti- 
tute and helpless. After a painful struggle, I yielded to rny fate : 
I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son ; my wound was insensibly 
healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure 
was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheer- 
fulness of the lady herself; and my love subsided in friendship 
and esteem. The minister of Crassy soon afterwards died ; his 
stipend died with him ; his daughter retired to Geneva, where, by 
teaching young ladies, she earned a hard subsistence for herself 
and her mother ; but in her lowest distress she maintained a spotless 
reputation and a dignified behavior. A rich banker of Pans, a 
citizen of Geneva, had the good fortune and good sense to discovti 
and possess this inestimable treasure ; and in the capital of taste and 
luxury she resisted the temptations of wealth, as she had sustained 
the hardships of indigence. The genius of her husband has ex- 
alted him to the most conspicuous station in Europe. In every 
change of prosperity and disgrace he has reclined on the bosom of 
a faithful friend ; and Mademoiselle Curchod is now the wife of 
M. Necker, the minister, and perhaps the legislator, of the French 
monarchy. 1 

After spending nearly five years at Lausanne, he returned to England in 
May, 1758. The following is his account of 

HIS INTERVIEW WITH HIS FATHER. 

It was not without some awe and apprehension that I ap- 
proached the presence of my father. My infancy, to speak the 
truth, had been neglected at home ; the severity of his look and 
language at our last parting still dwelt on my memory ; nor could 
I form any notion of his character or my probable reception 
They were both more agreeable than I could expect. The do 
mestic discipline of our ancestors has been relaxed by the philoso- 
phy and softness of the age ; and if my father remembered that 
he had trembled before a stern parent, it was only to adopt with 
his own son an opposite mode of behavior. He received me as 

l It is curious to speculate on the effect which a union with a female of such pure dignity or cha- 
racter and calm religious principle, might have had on the character and opinions of Gibbon. 



692 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. 

a man and a friend ; all constraint was banished, at our first inter- 
view, and we ever afterwards continued on the same terms of easy 
and equal politeness. He applauded the success of my education; 
every word and action were expressive of the most cordial affec- 
tion ; and our lives would have passed without a cloud, if his 
economy had been equal to his fortune, or if his fortune had been 
equal to his desires. 

The time spent at his father's Gibbon devoted to study, except about two 
years and a half, in which he was doing duty in a situation which bore no 
affinity to any other period of his studious and social life — as a militia officer. 
Parliament had resolved to raise a national militia, and he and his father 
offered their names as major and captain in the Hampshire regiment. A 
short time before this he had published Ms first work, « An Essay upon the 
Study of Literature," which was well received. After the militia was dis- 
banded, (December, 1762,) he resumed his studies, and determined to write 
upon some historical subject. He went to Paris, where he passed some time 
— visited Lausanne again, and there studied, preparatory to his Italian jour- 
ney — travelled into Italy, and returned to England in 1765. In 1770 he lost 
his father ; and as soon as he could, after this event, he arranged his circum- 
stances so as to settle in London. The following is his account of 

HIS PUBLICATION OF HIS HISTORY. 

No sooner was I settled in my house and library, than I under- 
took the composition of the first volume of my history. At the 
outset all was dark and doubtful — even the title of the work, the 
true era of the Decline and Fall of the Empire, the limits of the 
introduction, the division of the chapters, and the order of the 
narrative ; and I was often tempted to cast away the labor of seven 
years. The style of an author should be the image of his mind, 
but the choice and command of language is the fruit of exercise. 
Many experiments were made before I could hit the middle tone 
between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation : three 
times did I compose the first chapter, and twice the second and 
third, before I was tolerably satisfied with their effect. In the 
remainder of the way I advanced with a more equal and easy 
pace ; but the fifteenth and sixteenth chapters have been reduced, 
by three successive revisals, from a large volume to their present 
size ; and they might still be compressed without any loss of facts 
or sentiments. An opposite fault may be imputed to the concise 
and superficial narrative of the first reigns, from Commodus to 
Alexander; a fault of which I have never heard, except from 
Mr. Hume in his last journey to London. Such an oracle might 
have been consulted and obeyed with rational devotion ; but I was 
soon disgusted with the modest practice of reading the manuscript 
to my friends. Of such friends, some will praise from politeness, 
und some v- ill criticise from vanity. The author himself is the 



1760-1820.] gibbon. 693 

best judge of his own performance ; no one has so deeply medi- 
tated on the subject; no one is so sincerely interested in the event. 
The volume of my history, which had been somewhat delayed 
by the novelty and tumult of a first session, was now ready for 
the press. After the perilous adventure had been declined by 
my friend Mr. Elmsiy, I agreed upon easy terms with Mr. Tho- 
mas Cadell, a respectable bookseller, and Mr. William Strahan, 
an eminent printer ; and they undertook the care and risk of the 
publication, which derived more credit from the name of the shop 
than from that of the author. The last revisal of the proofs was 
submitted to my vigilance ; and many blemishes of style, which 
had been invisible in the manuscript, were discovered and cor* 
rected in the printed sheet. So moderate Avere our hopes, that 
the original impression had been stinted to five hundred, till the 
number was doubled by the prophetic taste of Mr. Strahan. Dur- 
ing this awful interval I was neither elated by the ambition of 
fame, nor depressed by the apprehension of contempt. My dili- 
gence and accuracy were attested by my own conscience. His- 
tory is the most popular species of writing, since it can adapt 
itself to the highest or the lowest capacity. I had chosen an illus- 
trious subject. Rome is familiar to the schoolboy and the states- 
man ; and my narrative was deduced from the last period of 
classical reading. I had likewise nattered myself that an age of 
light and liberty would receive, without scandal, an inquiry into 
the human causes of the progress and establishment :>f Chris- 
tianity. 1 

After publishing two more volumes of his History, he went tc Lausanne, 
the place endeared to him by early recollections, there to settle for the rest of 
his life, and complete his great work. The following are his remarks on 

THE COMPLETION OF HIS HISTORY. 

I have presumed to mark the moment of conception : I shall 
now commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on 
the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the 
hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last 
page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my 
pen, I took several turns in a herceau, or covered walk of acacias, 

1 Gibbon's attack on Christianity in his otherwise great work is as mean as it is unjust. It was most 
triumphantly answered by the Rev. Dr. Watson, in his " Apology for Christianity, in a series ot Let- 
ters to Edward Gibbon, author of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." Mr. 
Whitaker, also the historian of Manchester, thus rebuked him in a letter : 

" You never speak feebly except when you come upon British ground, and never weakly except 
when you attack Christianity. In the former case you seem to me to want information : and in the 
latter, you plainly want the common candor of a citizen of the world for the religious system of yout 
country. Pardon me, sir, but, as much as I admire your abilities, I cannot bear without indigna- 
tion, your sarcastic slyness upon Christianity, and cannot see, without pify your determined hoa 
tility to the Gospel." 



694 GIBBON. [GEORGE III. 

which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the 
mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the sil- 
ver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature 
was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on re- 
covery of my freedom, and perhaps the establishment of my fame. 
But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was 
spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting 
leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever 
might be the future date of my History, the life of the historian 
must be short and precarious. I will add two facts which have 
seldom occurred in the composition of six, or at least of five, 
quartos. 1 . My first rough manuscript, without any intermediate 
copy, has been sent to the press. 2. Not a sheet has been seen 
by any human eyes excepting those of the author and the printer: 
the faults and the merits are exclusively my own. 

INVENTION AND USE OF GUNPOWDER. 

The only hope of salvation for the Greek empire and the adja- 
cent kingdoms, would have been some more powerful weapon, 
some discovery in the art of war, that should give them a decisive 
superiority over their Turkish foes. Such a weapon was in their 
hands ; such a discovery had been made in the critical moment 
of their fate. The chemists of China or Europe had found, by 
casual or elaborate experiments, that a mixture of saltpetre, sul- 
phur, and charcoal, produces, with a spark of fire, a tremendous 
explosion. It was soon observed, that if the expansive force were 
compressed in a strong tube, a ball of stone or iron might be ex- 
pelled with irresistible and destructive velocity. The precise era 
of the invention and application of gunpowder is involved in 
doubtful traditions and equivocal language ; yet we may clearly 
discern that it was known before the middle of the fourteenth 
century ; and that before the end of the same, the use of artillery 
in battles and sieges, by sea and land, was familiar to the states 
of Germany, Italy, Spain, France, and England. The priority 
of nations is of small account ; none could derive any exclusive 
benefit from their previous or superior knowledge ; and in the 
common improvement, they stood on the same level of relative 
power and military science. Nor was it possible to circumscribe 
the secret within the pale of the church ; it was disclosed to the 
Turks by the treachery of apostates and the selfish policy of 
rivals ; and the sultans had sense to adopt, and wealth to reward, 
the talents of a Christian engineer. The Genoese, who trans- 
ported Amu rath into Europe, must be accused as his preceptors ; 
und it was probably by their hands that his cannon was cast and 
directed at the siege of Constantinople. The first attempt was 



1760-1820.] jones. 695 

indeed unsuccessful ; but in the general warfare of the age, the 
advantage was on their side who Avere most commonly the assail- 
ants ; for a while the proportion of the attack and defence was sus- 
pended ; and this thundering artillery was pointed against the 
walls and towers which had been erected only to resist the less 
potent engines of antiquity. By the Venetians, the use of gun- 
powder was communicated without reproach to the sultans of 
Egypt and Persia, their allies against the Ottoman power ; the 
secret was soon propagated to the extremities of Asia ; and the 
advantage of the European was confined to his easy victories over 
the savages of the New World. If we contrast the rapid progress 
of this mischievous discovery with the slow and laborious advances 
of reason, science, and the arts of peace, a philosopher, according 
to his temper, will laugh or weep at the folly of mankind. 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 1746—1794. 

Few names in English literature recall such associations of worth, intellect, 
and accomplishments, as that of Sir William Jones. He was born in London 
in 1746. He lost his father when only three years old, and the care of his 
education devolved upon his mother. "She was a person," says Campbell, 
« of superior endowments, and cultivated his dawning powers with a sagacious 
assiduity, which undoubtedly contributed to their quick and surprising growth, 
We may judge of what a pupil she had, when we are told that, at five years 
of age, one morning, in turning over the leaves of a Bible, he fixed his atten- 
tion with the strongest admiration on a sublime passage in the Revelations. 
Human nature, perhaps, presents no authentic picture of its felicity more pure 
or satisfactory, than that of such a pupil superintended by a mother capable 
of directing him." 

At the age of seven he went to Harrow school, where he made the most 
astonishing progress in his studies ; and at the age of seventeen he went to 
Oxford, his mother going with him, and taking up her residence in the town. 
Here he pursued the study of the Oriental languages, which he had com 
menced at Harrow, and on leaving the university, he was, perhaps, possessed 
of as much varied learning as any one who ever took his degree at that re- 
nowned seat of literature. The same year (1765) he accepted the invitation 
of the Earl of Spencer to become the tutor to his son; at the same time he 
was constantly adding to his own stores of knowledge. He journeyed with 
the family twice upon the Continent, and on his return after his second tour, 
in 1771, he resolved to devote himself to the study of the law. He had al- 
ready published a small volume of poems, and two dissertations on Oriental 
literature, and after he was called to the bar, he gave to the world a transla- 
tion of the Greek Orations of Isseus. He was at this time a member of the 
Royal Society, and maintained an epistolary correspondence with several emi- 
nent foreign scholars. 

During the progress of our Revolutionary war, Sir William Jones expressed 
his decided disapprobation of the measures of his own government, havmg 



696 JONES. [GEORGE III. 

no sympathy with that infamous sentiment, " Our country right or wrong." 
Like Lord Chatham, and Burke, and Pitt, and Fox, he did not hesitate to re- 
buke, and rebuke severely, his country, or rather the ruling administration, 
when he deemed its measures to be wrong. But his inflexible adherence to 
correct principles, and to a just line of action, together with an " Ode to 
Liberty," which he had published, caused him to lose favor with those who 
had offices in their gift, and he did not obtain the situation of the judgeship at 
Fort William, in Bengal, which became vacant in 1780, though he was doubt- 
less the most competent person at that time in England to fill it. But on a 
change of administration in 1782, he was appointed to this responsible station, 
and received the honor of knighthood. In April, 1783, he married Anna 
Maria Shipley, the daughter of the Bishop of St. Asaph, to whom he had 
been engaged for sixteen years. He immediately set sail for India, having 
secured, as his friend Lord Ashburton congratulated him, the two first objects 
of human pursuit, those of love and ambition. 

In December, 1783, he commenced the discharge of his duties as an Indian 
judge, with his characteristic ardor ; but it is impossible, in this short space, 
to do any justice to his great labors. He early formed a society of which he 
was the president, for "Inquiring into the History and Antiquities, the Arts, 
Sciences, and Literature of Asia ;" and to the " Asiatic Researches," which 
this society published, he himself was the chief contributor. The following 
are some of his papers: "Eleven Anniversary Discourses on the different 
nations of Asia, &c. ;" " A Dissertation on the Orthography of Asiatic Words 
in Roman Letters ;" " On the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India ;" " On the 
Chronology of the Hindoos;" "On the Antiquity of the Indian Zodiac;" "On 
the Mystical Poetry of the Persians and Hindoos ;"' with very man) r other 
treatises of less importance. All these literary labors he performed when not 
attending to his official duties, which, for the greater part of the year, occu- 
pied him seven hours a day. But such labors, enough to try the strongest con- 
stitution anywhere, were too much for him in the debilitating climate of 
Bengal; his health gave way, and he died at Calcutta, on the 27th of April, 
1794.1 

" In the course of a short life," says Campbell, " Sir William Jones acquired 
a degree of knowledge which the ordinary faculties of men, if they were 
blessed with antediluvian longevity, could scarcely hope to surpass. His 
learning threw light on the laws of Greece and India, on the general litera- 
ture of Asia, and on the history of the family of nations. He carried philo- 
sophy, eloquence, and philanthropy, into the character of a lawyer and a 
judge. Amidst the driest toils of erudition, he retained a sensibility to the 
beauties of poetry, and a talent for transfusing them into his own language, 
which has seldom been united with the same degree of industry. When he- 
went abroad, it was not to enrich himself with the spoils of avarice or ambi- 
tion; but to search, amidst the ruins of oriental literature, for treasures which 
he would not have exchanged 

•For all Bocara's vaunted gold, 
Or all the gems of Samarcand.' " 

" Sir William Jones," says his biographer, " seems to have acted on this 
maxim, that whatever had been attained was attainable by him; and he was 
never observed to overlook or neglect any opportunity of adding to his ao 

1 The best edition of his works is that by Lord Teignniouth, in 13 vols. 8vo.; to which is prefixed 
a well-written life of this illustrious scholar. 



L760-1820.] jones. 697 

complishrnents or to his knowledge. When in India, his studies began with 
the dawn ; and, in seasons of intermission from professional duty, continued 
through the day ; while meditation retraced and confirmed what reading had 
collected or investigation discovered. By a regular application of time to 
particular occupations, he pursued various objects without confusion ; and in 
undertakings which depended on his individual perseverance, he was never 
deterred by difficulties from proceeding to a successful termination." With 
respect to the division of his time, he had written in India, on a small piece 
of paper, the following lines : — 

Sir Edward Coke. 
Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six, 
Four spend in prayer — the rest on nature fix. 

Rather. 
Six hours to law, to soothing slumber seven, 
Ten to the world allot, and J all to heaven. 

But we cannot conclude this short sketch of the life of this eminently great 
and good man, without adding his beautiful encomium on the Bible. Let it 
be borne in mind that those peculiar attainments which rendered him so 
fully competent to utter it, were scarcely ever possessed by any other man ; 
for he was not only critically acquainted with the original languages of the 
Bible, but with all the various cognate languages and dialects of the East, a 
knowledge of which imparts new beauty and lustre to that wonderful book 



THE BIBLE. 

I have regularly and attentively read the Holy Scriptures, and 
am of opinion that this volume, independent of its Divine origin 
contains more sublimity and beauty, more pure morality, more 
important history, and finer strains of poetry and eloquence, than 
can be collected from all other books, in whatever language or age 
they may have been composed. 3 

AN ODE. 

In Imitation of JLlcceiis. 

What constitutes a State 1 
Not high-raised battlement, or labor'd mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd ; 

Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starr"d and spangled courts, 
Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No :— MEN, high-minded MEN, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

1 "One" is naturally expected, to make up the twenty-four: instead of that, by an unexpected 
turn, he says " all to heaven," intending one to be reserved for purposes of devotion. See remarks 
on the same in Macaulay's Review of Croker's Boswell. 

2 "I am confident," says Sir Richard Steele, "that whoever reads the Gospels, with a he.irt as 
much prepared in favor of them, as when he sits down to Virgil or Homer, will find no passage there 
which is not told with more natural force than any episode in either of those wits, who were the 
chief of mere mankind." 

59 



698 JONES. [GEORGE III. 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude : 

Men. who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, 

Prevent the long-aim'd blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 

These constitute a State, 
And sovereign LAW, that State's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill ; 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend Discretion like a vapor sinks, 

And e'en th' all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish and be MEN no more ? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Among the most instructive and pleasing of Sir William Jones's prose 
compositions, are his Letters; from which we take the following charming 

DESCRIPTION OF MILTON's RESIDENCE, 
To Ladt Speuceb i 1 

September 7, 1769. 
The necessary trouble of correcting the first printed sheets of 
my History, prevented me to-day from paying a proper respect to 
the memory of Shakspeare, by attending his jubilee. But I was 
resolved to do all the honor in my power to as great a poet, and 
set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place 
where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all proba- 
bility, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a 
small village, situated on a pleasant hill, about three miles from 
Oxford, and called Forest-Hill, because it formerly lay con- 
tiguous to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet 
chose this place of retirement after his first marriage, and he 
describes the beauty of his retreat in that fine passage of his 
U Allegro : 

Sometimes walking not unseen, 

By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green. 

While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 

1 In the summer of 1768 the Earl of Spencer's son went to Harrow school, (ten miles N. W. of Lon- 
don,) and Sir William (then Mr.) Jones accompanied him thither. During the autumnal vacation 
of the next year, our author visited his friends at Oxford, and during his residence among them, he 
made the excui sion to Forest-Hill, which is related with so much animation and true poetic feeling 
In this moot interesting letter to Lady Spencer. 



1760-1820.] jones. 699 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 

And the mower whets his scythe ; 

And every shepherd tells his tale, 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 

While the landscape round it measures : 

Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 

Mountains, on whose barren breast 

The laboring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees, 

Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 

* » • * • 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 

From betwixt two aged oaks, &c. 

It was neither the proper season of the year, nor time of the 
day, to hear all the rural sounds and see all the objects mentioned 
in this description ; but by a pleasing concurrence of circum- 
stances, we were saluted, on our approach to the village, with the 
music of the mower and his scythe ; we saw the ploughman in- 
tent upon his labor, and the milkmaid returning from her country 
employment. 

As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the 
agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave 
us the highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot whence 
Milton undoubtedly took most of his images : it is on the top of the 
hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides ; 
the distant mountains that seemed to support the clouds, the vil- 
lages and turrets, partly shaded by trees of the finest verdure, and 
partly raised above the groves that surrounded them, the dark 
plains and meadows, of a grayish color, where the sheep were 
feeding at large ; in short, the view of the streams and rivers, 
convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word in 
the above-mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and 
lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which 
has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional 
beauty from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of 
poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to 
the village. 

The poet's house was close to the church ; the greatest part of 
it has been pulled down, and what remains, belongs to an adjacent 
farm. I am informed that several papers in Milton's own hand 
were found by the gentleman who was last in possession of the 
estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current among 
the villagers : one of them showed us a ruinous wall that made 
part of his chamber ; and I was much pleased with another, who 



700 BURNS. [GEORGE m. 

had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him ly the title 
of the poet. 

It must not be omitted, that the groves near this village are 
famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the 
Penseroso. Most of the cottage-windows are overgrown with 
sweetbriers, vines, and honeysuckles ; and that Milton's habita- 
tion had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his de- 
scription of the lark bidding him good-morrow : 

Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 

for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the eglan- 
tine, though that word is commonly used for the sweetbrier, which 
he could not mention twice in the same couplet. If I ever pass a 
month or six weeks at Oxford, in the summer, I shall be inclined 
to hire and repair this venerable mansion, and to make a festival 
for a circle of friends, in honor of Milton, the most perfect scholar, 
as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. 
Such an honor will be less splendid, but more sincere and respect- 
ful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon. 

I have, &c. 



ROBERT BURNS. 1759—1796. 

Robert Burns, the celebrated Scottish poet, was born in Ayrshire, 1 one of 
the western counties of Scotland, January 25, 1759. His father was a small 
farmer, and Robert had no advantages of early education beyond what the 
parish schools afforded. But he made the most of what he had; and in the 
possession of discreet, virtuous, and most pious parents, he had the best of all 
education, the education of the heart ; and in the " Cotter's Saturday Night," 
we see what was the foundation of the whole — the Bible. He early showed 
a strong taste for reading; and to the common rudiments of education he 
added some knowledge of mensuration, and a smattering of Latin and French. 
But poetry was his first delight, as it was his chief solace through life. A 
little before his sixteenth year, as he tells us himself, he had " first committed 
the sin of rhyme." His verses soon acquired him considerable village fame, 
to which, as he made acquaintances in Ayr and other neighboring towns with 
young men of his own age, he greatly added by the remarkable fluency of his 
expression, and the vigor of his conversational powers. The charms of these 
social meetings, at which he shone with so much distinction, gradually intro- 
duced him to new habits, some of which were most destructive to his hap- 
piness and his virtue. 

About this time, to escape the ills of poverty, and to break away from 
some of the associations by which he was surrounded, he resolved to leave 
his native country, and to try his fortune in Jamaica. In order to raise funds 
for this purpose, he resolved to publish a volume of his poems. They were 
received with great favor, and Burns cleared, thereby, twenty pounds. He 

1 He was born in a clay-built cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr. 



1760-1820.] buens. 701 

engaged his passage, his chest was on the road to Greenock, from which 
port he was to sail, and he had taken leave of his friends, when a letter from 
Dr. Blacklock to one of the friends of the poet completely altered his reso- 
lution. "His opinion," says Burns himself, "that I would meet with en- 
couragement in Edinburgh for a second edition of my poems, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a 
Single letter of introduction." • 

The result was, the introduction of the poet to all who were eminent in 
lii.erai.ure, in rank, or in fashion, in the Scottish metropolis. The brilliant 
conversational powers of the unlettered ploughman seem to have struck all 
with whom he came in contact, with as much wonder as his poetry. Under 
die patronage of Dr. Robertson, Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Henry Mac- 
kenzie, and other persons of note, a new edition of his poems was published, 
which yielded him nearly five hundred pounds. With this he returned, in 
1788, to Ayrshire — advanced two hundred pounds to relieve his aged mother 
and brother, who were struggling with many difficulties on their farm — and 
with the rest prepared to stock another farm for himself in Dumfrieshire, 
where he took up his abode in June of that year, having before publicly 
solemnized his union with Jean Armour, to whom he had long been attached. 

But the farm did not prosper well, and he obtained the office of exciseman 
or guager, in the district in which he lived. In 1791 he abandoned the farm 
entirely, and took a small house in the town of Dumfries. By this time, his 
habits of conviviality had settled down to confirmed intemperance, " and al- 
most every drunken fellow, who was willing to spend his money lavishly in 
the ale-house, could easily command the company of Burns. His Jean still 
behaved with a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, 
which made him feel more bitterly the evil of his misconduct, although they 
could not reclaim him. At last, crippled, emaciated, having die very power 
of animation wasted by disease, quite broken-hearted by the sense of his 
errors, and of the hopeless miseries to which he saw himself and his family 
depressed, he died at Dumfries on the 21st of July, 1796, when only thirty- 
seven years of age." 2 

•* Burns," says Professor "Wilson, " is by far the greatest poet that ever 
sprung from the bosom of the people, and lived and died in an humble con- 
dition. Indeed, no country in the world but Scotland could have produced 
such a man; and he will be for ever regarded as the glorious representative 
of the genius of his country. He was born a poet, if ever man was, and 10 
his native genius alone is owing the perpetuity of his fame. For he mani- 
festly had never very deeply studied poetry as an art, nor reasoned much 
about its principles, nor looked abroad with the wide ken of intellect for 
objects and subjects on which to pour out bis inspiration. The condition 
of the peasantry of Scotland, the happiest, perhaps, that Providence evei 
allowed to the children of labor, was not surveyed and speculated upon by 
him as the field of poetry, but as the field of his own existence ; and he 
chronicled the events that passed, there, not merely as food for his imagina- 

1 This was in 1786, when he was twenty-seven years old. 

2 Read — an interesting sketch of his life in Chambers's Biographical Dictionai y of Eminent Scots- 
men ;" also, " Currie's Life," " Lockhart's Life," and " Cunningham's Life," prefixed to his edition 
of the poet's works. This is now the most complete and best edition of Burns, containing 150 pieces 
more than Dr. Currie's edition. Read, also, the "Genius and Character of Burns," by Professor 
Wilson. No. XXI. of Wiley ind Putnam's Library of Choice Reading. Also, two articles in the Edin 
burgh Review, vol. 13, and vol. 48, and one in the first volume of the Londoi. Quarterly. 

59* 



702 BURNS. [GEORGE III. 

tion as a poet, but as food for his heart as a man. Hence, when inspired to 
compose poetry, poetry came gushing up from the well of his human affec- 
tions, and he had nothing more to do than to pour it, like streams irrigating a 
meadow, in many a cheerful tide over the drooping flowers and fading ver- 
dure of life. Imbued with vivid perceptions, warm feelings, and strong pas- 
sions, he sent his own existence into that of all things, animate and inanimate, 
around him ; and not an occurrence in hamlet, village, or town, affecting in 
any way the happiness of the human heart, but roused as keen an interest in 
the soul of Burns, and as genial a sympathy, as if it had immediately con 
cerned himself and his own individual welfare. Most other poets of rural 
life have looked on it through the aerial veil of imagination — often beautified, 
no doubt, by such partial concealment, and beaming with misty softness more 
delicate than the truth. But Burns would not thus indulge his fancy where 
he had felt — felt so poignantly, all the agonies and all the transports of life. 
He looked around him, and when he saw the smoke of the cottage rising up 
quietly and unbroken to heaven, he knew, for he had seen and blessed it, the 
quiet joy and unbroken contentment that slept below ; and when he saw it 
driven and dispersed by the winds, he knew also but too well, for too sorely 
had he felt them, those agitations and disturbances which had shook him till 
he wept on his chaff bed. In reading his poetry, therefore, we know what 
unsubstantial dreams are all those of the golden age. But bliss beams upon 
us with a more subduing brightness through the dim melancholy that shrouds 
lowly life ; and when the peasant Burns rises up in his might as Burns the 
poet, and is seen to derive all that might from the life which at this hour the 
peasantry of Scotland are leading, our hearts leap within us, because that 
such is our country, and such the nobility of her children. There is no delu- 
sion, no affectation, no exaggeration, no falsehood, in the spirit of Burns's 
poetry. He rejoices like an untamed enthusiast, and he weeps like a pros- 
trate penitent. In joy and in grief the whole man appears: some of his finest 
effusions were poured out before he left the fields of his childhood, and when 
he scarcely hoped for other auditors than his own heart, -and the simple 
dwellers of the hamlet. He wrote not to please or surprise others — we 
speak of those first effusions — but in his own creative delight; and even after 
he had discovered his power to kindle the sparks of nature wherever they 
slumbered, the effect to be produced seldom seems to have been considered 
by him, assured that his poetry could not fail to produce the same passion in 
the hearts of other men from which it boiled over in his own. Out of him- 
self, and beyond his own nearest and dearest concerns, he well could, but he 
did not much love often or long to go. His imagination wanted not wings 
broad and strong for highest flights. But he was most at home when walking 
on this earth, through this world, even along the banks and braes of the 
streams of Coila. It seems as if his muse were loath to admit almost any 
thought, feeling, or image, drawn from any other region than his native dis- 
trict — the hearth-stone of his father's hut — the still or troubled chamber of 
his own generous and passionate bosom. Dear to him the jocund laughter 
of the reapers on the corn-field, the tears and sighs which his own strains 
had won from the children of nature enjoying the mid-day hour of rest be- 
neath the shadow of the hedgerow tree. With what pathetic personal power, 
from all the circumstances of his character and condition, do many of his 
humblest lines affect us ! Often, too often, as we hear him singing, we think 
that we see him suffering! 'Most musical, most melancholy' he often is, 
oven in bis merriment! In him, alas! the transports of inspiration are but 



1760-1820.] burns. 703 

too closely allied with reality's kindred agonies ! The strings of his lyre 
sometimes yield their finest mu.sic to the sighs of remorse or repents «ce. 
Whatever, therefore, be the faults or defects of the poetry of Burns — ana no 
doubt it has many — it has, beyond all that was ever written, this greater of 
all merits, intense, life-pervading, and life-breathing truth." 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

On turning one down with the plough in April-, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour : 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

A las ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth : 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0* clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ' 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 



704 BURNS. [GEORGE Ht 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 

Who long with wants and woes has striven, 

By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink! 

E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 1 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid 1 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow d grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace! 

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last ! . 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

CTerhung with wild woods, thickening green ^ 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

1 This was the first object of his early, pure, impassioned love— Mary Campbell, or bi» " Highland 
Mttry." In his poem, 

" Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomerie," 
ne describes, in the most beautiful language, their tender and final parting on the banks of the Ayr. 
He intended to marry her, but she died at Greenock on her return from a visit to her relations in 
Argyleshire. At a later period of life, on the anniversary of that hallowed day when they parted, ho 
devoted a night to a poetic vigil in the open air. As evening came, " he appeared to grow very sa.l 
about something," and wandered out of doors into the barn-yard, where his Jean found him lying 
on some straw with his eyes fixed on a shining star "like another moon." Thus did he writedown, 
as it now is, in its immortal beauty, this deepJy pathetic elegy to the memory of his " Highland Mary.' 



1760-1820.] bukns. 705 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest 1 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



LESSONS FOR LIFE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
'Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning-star advance, 
Pleasure, with her siren air, 
May delude the thoughtless pair : 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian naming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of evening close, 
Beckoning thee to long repose ; 
As Life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not — Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Wast thou cottager or king ? 
Peer or peasant? — No such thing! 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
To Virtue or to Vice is given. 
Say, " To be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base." 

2 Y 



706 BURNS. [GEORGE I1L 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quoth the beadsman of Nithside. 1 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq. 

My loved, my honor'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in fife's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae 2 the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 

This night his weekly moil 3 is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee 4 things, toddlin, 5 stacher 6 through 

To meet their dad, wi' flicterin' 7 noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, 8 blinkin 9 bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wine's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' 10 his weary carking 11 cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. 

Belyve 12 the elder bairns come drappin in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' 13 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 14 rin 

A cannie I5 errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw ,6 new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won 17 penny-fee, 18 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

I These beautiful lines were written in " Friars-Carse" Hermitage, on the banks of the Nith. 
8 From. 3 Labor. 4 Little. 6 Tottering in their walk. 6 Stagger. 1 Fluttering. 8 Fire. 
• Shining at intervals. lo AU. 11 Consuming. 12 By-and-by. 13 Drive. l* Cautious. 
•* Kindly dexterous. 10 pi ne> handsome. 17 Sorely won. 18 Wa^es. 



1760-1820.] burns. 707 

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters i.ieet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ;* 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos 2 that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view : 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars 3 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent 4 hand, 

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
"An', O! be sure to fear the Lord alway! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins 5 is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless <*kc 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; 6 

A strappan 7 youth, he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en ; 

The father cracks 8 of horses, pleughs, and kye. 9 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate 10 an' laithfu', 11 scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 12 

O, happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me tins declare,— 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 



1 Asks. 2 News. 


8 Makes. 


4 Diligent. 


6 Partly. 


6 Into the parlor 


7 Tall and handsome. 


8 Converses. 


S> Kine, cows 


10 Bashful. 


U Reluctant. 


12 The rest, the others. 











708 BURNS. [GEORGE III. 

Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 1 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board ! 

The healsome parritch, 2 chief o' Scotia's food : 
The soupe 3 their only hawkie 4 does afford, 

That 'yont 5 the hallan 6 snugly chows her cood: 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-haind 7 kebbuck, 8 fell, 9 
An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good ; 

The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond 10 auld, 11 sin 12 lint was i' the bell. 13 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire 14 turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big Ha'-Bible, 15 ance his father's pride; 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart 16 haffets 17 wearin' thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales 18 a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God," he says, wi' solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
Perhaps Dundee's 19 wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, 19 worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin 19 beats the heavenward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

I Mercy, kind feeling 2 Oatmeal-pudding. 8 Sauce, milk. 4 A pet-name for a cow 

6 Beyond. 6 A partition wall in a cottage. 7 Carefully preserved. 8 A cheese 

9 Biting to the taste. 10 Twelve months. u Old. 12 Since. 13 Flax was in blossom. 

14 This picture, as all the world knows, he drew from his father. He was himself, in imagination, 
*gain one of the "wee things" that ran to meet him; and "the priest-like father" had long worn 
that aspect before the poet's eyes, though he died before he was threescore. " I have always con- 
sidered William Burns," (the father,) says Murdoch, " as by far the best of the human race that I 
ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and many a worthy character I have known. He 
was a tender and affectionate father, and took pleasure in leading his children in the paths of virtue. 
I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Christian 
virtues of the venerable Burns. I shall only add, that he practised every known duty, and avoided 
every thing that was cruninal." The following is the "Epitaph" which the son wrote for him: 
O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near, with pious reverence, and attend I 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the generous friend : 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, 

"For e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 
1* The great Bible kept in the hall. 16 Gray. 17 The temples, the sides of the be»4 

M Chooses, 19 The names of Scottish psalm-tunes. 



17G0-1820.] burns. 709 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or, how the Royal Bard ' did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How His first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, 2 who lone in Patmos 3 banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear, 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 4 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the soul ; 
And in His book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off* their several way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad ; 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" 

1 David. 2 Saint John. 

3 An island in the Archipelago, where John is supposed to have written the book of Revelation. 

« Pitestly vestment. 

60 



710 BURNS. [GEORGE III. 

And certes, 1 in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle. 

Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's 2 undaunted heart 
Who dared to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? 

(Began the reverend sage ;) 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasures rage 1 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began, 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labor to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
Ive seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 



1 Certainly. * Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot. 



1760-1820.] burns. 711 

man 1 while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might : 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right. 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair 

Show man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds, in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Through weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth, 

To give him leave to toil : 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— 

By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn 1 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn'? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last! 



712 BURKE. [GEORGE III- 

The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



EDMUND BURKE. 1730—1797. 

This most distinguished writer and statesman was born at Dublin on the 
1st of January, 1730. On his mother's side he was connected with the poet 
Spenser, from whom, it is said, he received his Christian name. He was 
educated at Ballitore in the county of Kildare, at a classical academy under 
the management of Abraham Shackleton, a Quaker of superior talents and 
learning. Here, according to his own testimony, Burke acquired the most 
valuable of his mental habits ; he ever felt the deepest gratitude for his early 
instructor, and with his only son, Richard, the successor in the school, he pre- 
served an intimate friendship to the end of his life. In 1744 he entered 
Trinity College, Dublin, and in 1750 he was entered as a law-student at the 
Middle Temple, London : but his thoughts were soon entirely turned to litera- 
ture and politics, to which, henceforth, all his time, and talents, and energies 
were devoted. His first publication was anonymous, entitled, " A Vindication 

of Natural Society, in a Letter to Lord , by a Noble Lord." It was such 

an admirable imitation of the style of Lord Bolingbroke, that many were de- 
ceived by it, and deemed it a posthumous publication of that nobleman, who 
had been dead but five years. It was ironical throughout, endeavoring to 
prove that the same arguments with which that nobleman had attacked re- 
vealed religion, might be applied with equal force against all civil and poli- 
tical institutions whatever. 

In the next year, Burke published his " Essay on the Sublime and Beauti- 
ful," which, by the elegance of its language, and the spirit of philosophical 
investigation displayed in it, placed him at once in the very first class of 
writers on taste and criticism. His object is to show that terror is the prin- 
cipal source of the sublime, and that beauty is the quality in objects which 
excites love or affection. The fame acquired by this work introduced the 
author to the best literary acquaintances, among whom were Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds and Dr. Johnson. In 1758 he suggested to Dodsley the plan of the 
Annual Register, and engaged, himself, to furnish the chief historical matter, 
which he continued to do for very many years, and which has made that 
vvork the most valuable repository of historical knowledge of the times. 

In 1765, on the accession to power of the Marquis of Rockingham, he was 
appointed by that minister his private secretary, and was brought into parlia- 
ment for the borough of Wendover. It would be impossible, in the limited 
space assigned to these biographical sketches, to give an outline of his subse 



1760-1820.] burke. 713 

quent parliamentary and political career, or to enumerate all his various pub- 
lications. His life is a history of those eventful times, — for in them he acted 
a part more conspicuous than any other man. His able and eloquent oppo- 
sition to those infatuated measures of the ministry which led to and prolonged 
the contest between England and our own country — his advocacy of the free- 
dom of the press — of an improved libel law — of Catholic emancipation — of 
economical reform — of the abolition of the slave-trade ' — his giant efforts in 
the impeachment of "Warren Hastings — and his most eloquent and uncompro- 
mising hostility to the French Revolution, in his speeches in parliament and 
in his well-known "Reflections on the Revolution in France," — all these 
will ever cause him to be viewed as one of the warmest and ablest friends 
of man. 

In 1794, his son, who had just been elected to parliament, took ill and 
died; — a blow so severe to the father, that he never recovered from it; and it 
doubtless hastened his own end, which took place on the 9th of July, 1797. 

As an eloquent and philosophic political character, Burke stands alone. 2 His 
intellect was at once exact, minute, and comprehensive, and his imagination 
rich and vigorous. As to his style, he is remarkable for the copiousness and 
freedom of his diction, the splendor and great variety of his imagery, his 
astonishing command of general truths, and the ease with which he seems 
to wield those fine weapons of language, which most writers are able to 
manage only by the most anxious care. The following remarks of an able 
critic 3 are as beautiful as they are just: 

" There can be no hesitation in according to Mr. Burke a station among the 
most extraordinary men that have ever appeared ; and we think there is now 
but little diversity of opinion as to the kind of place which it is fit to assign 
him. He was a writer of the first class, and excelled in almost every kind 
of prose composition. Possessed of most extensive knowledge, and of the 
most various description; acquainted alike with what different classes of 
men knew, each in his own province, and with much that hardly any one 
ever thought of learning ; he could either bring his masses of information to 
bear directly upon the subjects to which they severally belonged — or he could 
avail himself of them generally to strengthen his faculties and enlarge his 
views — or he could turn any portion of them to account for the purpose of 
illustrating his theme, or enriching his diction. Hence, when he is handling 
any one matter, we perceive that we are conversing with a reasoner or a 
teacher, to whom almost every other branch of knowledge is familiar : his 

l Those who are not well read in the history of those times can hardly have an idea of the deep, 
bitter, malignant hostility, which the early English abolitionists, Sharp, Clarkson, Wilberforce, and 
others, had to encounter. Even Lord Chancellor Thurlow said, in his place in the House of Lords, 
on the 18th of June, 1788, that "it was unjust that this sudden ft of philanthropy, which was but a few 
days old, should be allowed to disturb the public mind, and to become the occasion of bringing men 
to the metropolis, who were engaged in the trade, with tears in their eyes and horror in their counte- 
nances, to deprecate the ruin of their property, which they had embarked on the faith of parliament;" 
and the Earl of Westmoreland considered that "as much attention was due to our property and 
manufactures as to a. false humanity." 

The devotion of Burke to the best interests of man caused Abraham Shackleton to write of him 
thus: "The memory of Edmund Burke's philanthropic virtues will outlive the period when his 
shining political talents will cease to act. New fashions of political sentiment will exist: but Phi- 
lanthropy — IMMORTALE MANET." 

i "The immortality of Burke," says Grattan, "is that which is common to Cicero or to Bacon,— 
that which can never be interrupted while there exists the beauty of order or the love of virtue, and 
which can fear no death except what barbarity may impose on the globe." 

» Bead the article in vol. xlvi. of the Edinburgh Review : also, his Life by James Prior. 



714 BURKE. [GEORGE IH. 

views range over all the cognate subjects ; his reasonings are derived from 
principles applicable to other theories as well as the one in hand: arguments 
pour in from all sides, as well as those which start up under our feet, the 
natural growth of the path he is leading us over: while to throw light round 
our steps, and either explore its darker places, or serve for our recreation, 
illustrations are fetched from a thousand quarters ; and an imagination mar- 
vellously quick to descry unthought-of resemblances, points to our use the 
stores, which a lore yet more marvellous has gathered from all ages, and 
nations, and arts, and tongues. We are, in respect of the argument, reminded 
of Bacon's multifarious knowledge and the exuberance of his learned fancy; 
while the many-lettered diction recalls to mind the first of English poets, and 
his immortal verse, rich with the spoils of all sciences and all times." 1 

l The following comparison between Burke and Johnson is taken from Cumberland's "Retr<* 
spection." 

Nature gave to each 
rowers that in some respects may be compared, 
For both were Orators — and could we now 
Canvass the social circles where they mix'd, 
The palm for eloquence, by general vote, 
Would rest with him whose thunder never shook 
The senate or the bar. When Burke harangued 
The nation's representatives, methought 
The fine machinery that his fancy wrought, 
Rich but fantastic, sometimes would obscure 
That symmetry which ever should uphold 
The dignity and order of debate. 
•Gainst orator like this had Johnson rose, 
So clear was his perception of the truth, 
So grave his judgment, and so high the swell 
Of his full period, I must think his speech 
Had charm'd as many and enlighten'd more. 

Johnson, if right I judge, in classic lore 
Was more diffuse than deep : he did not dig 
So many fathoms down as Bentley dug 
In Grecian soil, but far enough to find 
Truth ever at the bottom of his shaft. 
Burke, borne by genius on a lighter wing, 
Skimm'd o'er the flowery plains of Greece and Rome, 
And, like the bee returning to its hive, 
Brought nothing home but sweets : Johnson would dash 
Through sophist or grammarian ankle-keep, 
And rummage in their mud to trace a date, 
Or hunt a dogma down, that gave offence 
To his philosophy. — 

Both had a taste 
For contradiction, but in mode unlike : 
Johnson at once would doggedly pronounce 
Opinions false, and after prove them such. 
Burke, not less critical, but more polite, 
With ceaseless volubility of tongue 
Play'd round and round his subject, till at length, 
Content to find you willing to admire, 
He ceased to urge, or win you to assent. 

Splendor of style, fertility of thought, 
And the bold use of metaphor in both, 
Strike us with rival beauty : Burke display'd 
A copious period, that with curious skill 



1760-1820.] burke. 715 



TERROR A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of 
acting and reasoning as fear ; for fear being an apprehension of 
pain or death, it operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. 
Whatever therefore is terrible with regard to sight, is sublime 
too, whether this cause of terror be endued with greatness of 
dimensions or not ; for it is impossible to look on any thing as 
trifling or contemptible, that may be dangerous. There are many 
animals, who, though far from being large, are yet capable of rais- 
ing ideas of the sublime, because they are considered as objects 
of terror; as serpents and poisonous animals of almost all kinds. 
Even to things of great dimensions, if we annex any adventitious 
idea of terror, they become without comparison greater. An even 
plain of a vast extent of land, is certainly no mean idea : the pros- 
pect of such a plain may be as extensive as a prospect of the 
ocean ; but can it ever fill the mind with any thing so great as 
the ocean itself? This is owing to several causes, but it is owing 
to none more than to this, that the ocean is an object of no small 
terror. 

SYMPATHY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

It is by the passion of sympathy that we enter into the con- 
cerns of others ; that we are moved as they are moved, and are 
never suffered to be indifferent spectators of almost any thing 
which men can do or suffer. For sympathy must be considered 
as a sort of substitution, by which we are put into the place of 
another man, and affected in a good measure as he is affected ; so 
that this passion may either partake of the nature of those which 
regard self-preservation, and turning upon pain may be a source 
of the sublime ; or it may turn upon ideas of pleasure, and then. 

And ornamental epithet drawn out, 

Was, like the singer's cadence, sometimes apt, 

Although melodious, to fatigue the ear: 

Johnson, with terms unnaturalized and rude, 

And Latinisms forced into his line, 

Like raw, undrill'd recruits, would load his text 

High sounding and uncouth : yet if you cull 

His happier pages, you will find a style 

Guintilian might have praised. Still I perceive 

Nearer approach to purity in Burke, 

Though not the full accession to that grace, 

That chaste simplicity, which is the last 

And best attainment author can possess. 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was on the most intimate terms with both, thought that Dr. Johnson pos- 
sessed a wonderful strength of mind, but that Mr. Burke had a more comprehensive capacity, a more 
exact judgment, and also that his knowledge was more extensive : with the most profound respect 
for the talents of both^ he therefore decided that Mr. Burke was the superior character. 



716 BURKE. [GEORGE III. 

whatever has been said of the social affections, whether they 
regard society in general, or only some particular modes of it, may 
be applicable here. 

It is by this principle chiefly that poetry, painting, and other 
affecting arts, transfuse their passions from one breast to another, 
and are often capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness, 
misery, and death itself. It is a common observation, that objects, 
which in the reality would shock, are, in tragical and such like 
representations, the source of a very high species of pleasure. 
This, taken as a fact, has been the cause of much reasoning. This 
satisfaction has been commonly attributed, first, to the comfort we 
receive in considering that so melancholy a story is no more than 
a fiction ; and next, to the contemplation of our own freedom from 
the eviJs we see represented. I am afraid it is a practice much 
too common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute the cause of 
feelings which merely arise from the mechanical structure of our 
bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, to 
certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects pre- 
sented to us ; for I have some reason to apprehend, that the influ- 
ence of reason in producing our passions is nothing near so exten- 
sive as is commonly believed. 

UNCERTAINTY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

A low, tremulous, intermitting sound is productive of the sub- 
lime. It is worth while to examine this a little. The fact itself 
must be determined by every man's own experience and reflec- 
tion. I have always observed that night increases our terror, 
more perhaps than any thing else ; it is our nature, when we do 
not know what may happen to us, to fear the worst that can hap- 
pen ; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible, that we often 
seek to be rid of it, at the hazard of a certain mischief. Now 
some low, confused, uncertain sounds leave us in the same fearful 
anxiety concerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain 
light, does concerning the objects that surround us. 

" A faint shadow of uncertain light, 
Like as a lamp, whose life doth fade away ; 
Or as the moon, clothed with cloudy night, 
Doth- show to him who walks in fear and great affright." 

But light now appearing, and now leaving us, and so off and on, 
is ever, more terrible than total darkness ; and sorts of uncertain 
sounds are, when the necessary dispositions concur, more alarm- 
ing than a total silence. 



1760-1820.] burke. 717 



DIFFICULTY ADVANTAGEOUS. 

Difficulty is a severe instructor, set over us by the Supreme 
ordinance of a parental Guardian and Legislator, who knows us 
better than we know ourselves, as he loves us better too. He that 
wrestles with us, strengthens our nerves, and sharpens our skill. 
Our antagonist is our helper. This amicable conflict with diffi- 
culty obliges us to an intimate acquaintance with our object, and 
compels us to consider it in all its relations. It will not suffer us 
to be superficial. 



REVOLUTIONS OF NATIONAL GRANDEUR. 

I doubt whether the history of mankind is yet complete enough, 
if ever it can be so, to furnish grounds for a sure theory on the 
internal causes which necessarily affect the fortune of a state. I 
am far from denying the operation of such causes ; but they are 
infinitely uncertain, and much more obscure, and much more dif- 
ficult to trace, than the foreign causes that tend to raise, to depress, 
and sometimes to overwhelm a community. It is often impossible 
in these political inquiries, to find any proportion between the 
apparent force of any moral causes we may assign, and their 
known operation. We are therefore obliged to deliver up that 
operation to mere chance, or, more piously, (perhaps more ration- 
ally,) to the occasional interposition and irresistible hand of the 
Great Disposer. We have seen states of considerable duration, 
which for ages have remained nearly as they have begun, and 
would hardly be said to ebb or flow. Some appear to have spent 
their vigor at their commencement. Some have blazed out in 
their glory a little before their extinction. The meridian of others 
has been the most splendid. Others, and they are the greatest 
number, have fluctuated, and experienced at different periods of 
their existence a great variety of fortune. At the very moment 
when some of them seemed plunged in unfathomable abysses of 
disgrace and disaster, they have suddenly emerged. They have 
begun a new course, and opened a new reckoning ; and even in 
the depths of their calamity, and on the very ruins of their coun- 
try, have laid the foundations of a towering and durable greatness. 
All this has happened without any apparent previous change in 
the general circumstances which had brought on their distress . 
the death of a man at a critical juncture, his disgust, his retreat, 
his disgrace, have brought innumerable calamities on a whole 
nation. A common soldier, a child, a girl at the door of an inn. 
have changed the face of fortune, and almost of nature. 



718 BURKE. [GEORGE III. 

CHARACTER OF JUNIUS. 

Where, Mr. Speaker, shall we look for the origin of this re- 
laxation of the laws, and of all government ? How comes this 
Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law, and to 
range uncontrolled, unpunished, through the land? The myrmi- 
dons of the court have been long, and are still, pursuing him in 
vain. They will not spend their time upon me, or you : no; they 
disdain such vermin, when the mighty boar of the forest, that has 
broken through all their toils, is before them. But, what will all 
their efforts avail ? No sooner has he wounded one, than he lays 
down another dead at his feet. For my part, when I saw his 
attack upon the king, I own my blood ran cold. I thought he 
had ventured too far, and that there was an end of his triumphs : 
not that he had not asserted many truths. Yes, sir, there are in 
that composition many bold truths by which a wise prince might 
profit. But while I expected from this daring flight his final ruin 
and fall, behold him rising still higher, and coming down souse 
upon both houses of parliament. Yes, he did make you his 
quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You 
crouched, and still crouch beneath his rage. Nor has he dreaded 
the terror of your brow, sir ; he has attacked even you — he has — 
and I believe you have no reason to triumph in the encounter. 
In short, after carrying away our royal eagle in his pounces, and 
dashing him against a rock, he has laid you prostrate. Kings, 
Lords, and Commons, are but the sport of his fury. Were he a 
member of this house, what might not be expected from his know- 
ledge, his firmness, and integrity ! He would be easily known 
by his contempt of all danger, by his penetration, by his vigor. 
Nothing would escape his vigilance and activity ; bad ministers 
could conceal nothing from his sagacity ; nor could promises or 
threats induce him to conceal any thing from the public. 

JOHN HOWARL. 

I cannot name this gentleman without remarking- that his labors 
and writings have done much to open the eyes and hearts of man- 
kind. He has visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuous- 
ness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples ; not to make accu- 
rate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to 
form a scale of the curiosity of modern art ; not to collect medals, 
or collate manuscripts : but to dive into the depths of dungeons ; 
to plunge into the infection of hospitals ; to survey the mansions 
of sorrow and pain ; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, 
depression, and contempt ; to remember the forgotten, to attend to 
the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and collate the 



1760-1820.] burke. 719 

distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original; and it 
is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of dis- 
covery ; a circumnavigation of charity. Already the benefit of 
his labour is felt more or less in every country ; I hope he will 
anticipate his final reward, by seeing all its effects fully realized 
in his own. He will receive, not by detail but in gross, the re- 
ward of those who visit the prisoner ; and he has so forestalled 
and monopolized this branch of charity, that there will be, I trust, 
little room to merit by such acts of benevolence hereafter. 

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

His illness was long, but borne with a mild and cheerful forti- 
tude, without the least mixture of any thing irritable or querulous, 
agreeably to the placid and even tenor of his whole life. He had, 
from the beginning of his malady, a distinct view of his dissolu- 
tion ; and he contemplated it with that entire composure, which 
nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness of his life, 
and an unaffected submission to the will of Providence, could 
bestow. In this situation he had every consolation from family 
tenderness, which his own kindness to his family had indeed well 
deserved. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on very many accounts, one of the 
most memorable men of his time. He was the first Englishman 
who added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his 
country. In taste, in grace, in facility, in happy invention, and 
in the richness and harmony of coloring, he was equal to the great 
masters of the renowned ages. In portrait he went beyond them; 
for he communicated to that department of the art in which Eng- 
lish artists are the most engaged, a variety, a fancy, and a dignity 
derived from the higher branches, which even those who pro- 
fessed them in a superior manner did not always preserve when 
they delineated individual nature. His portraits remind the spec- 
tator of the invention of history and of the amenity of landscape. 
In painting portraits, he appears not to be raised upon that plat- 
form, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His paintings 
illustrate his lessons, and his lessons seem to have been derived 
from his paintings. He possessed the theory as perfectly as the 
practice of his art. To be such a painter, he was a profound and 
penetrating philosopher. 

In full happiness of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the 
expert in art and by the learned in science, courted by the ^reat, 
caressed by sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished 
poets, his native humility, modesty, and candor never lorsook him, 
even on surprise or provocation ; nor was the least degree of arrd- 



720 BURKE. [GEORGE ILT. 

gance or assumption visible to the most scrutinizing eye in any 
part of his conduct or discourse. 

His talents of every kind — powerful from nature, and not 
meanly cultivated by letters — his social virtues in all the relations 
and in all the habitudes of life, rendered him the centre of a very 
great and unparalleled variety of agreeable societies, which will 
be dissipated by his death. He had too much merit not to pro- 
voke some jealousy, too much innocence to provoke any enmity. 
The loss of no man of his time can be felt with more sincere, 
general, and unmixed sorrow. 

"Hail! and farewell!" 



CLOSE OF HIS SPEECH TO THE ELECTORS OF BRISTOL. 

Gentlemen, I have had my day. I can never sufficiently ex- 
press my gratitude to you, for having set me in a place, wherein 
I could lend the slightest help to great and laudable designs. If I 
have had my share, in any measure giving quiet to private pro- 
perty and private conscience ; if by my vote I have aided in se- 
curing to families the best possession, peace ; if I have joined in 
reconciling kings to their subjects, and subjects to their prince; if 
I have assisted to loosen the foreign holdings of the citizen, and 
taught him to look for his protection to the laws of his country, 
and for his comfort to the good-will of his countrymen ; — if I have 
thus taken my part with the best of men in the best of theii 
actions, I can shut the book ; — I might wish to read a page or two 
more — but this is enough for my measure. — I have not lived in 
vain. 

And now, gentlemen, on this serious day, when I come, as it 
were, to make up my account with you, let me take to myself 
some degree of honest pride on the nature of the charges that are 
against me. i do not here stand before you accused of venality, 
or of neglect of duty. It is not said, that, in the long period of 
my service, I have, in a single instance, sacrificed the slightest of 
your interests to my ambition, or to my fortune. It is not alleged, 
that, to gratify any anger, or revenge of my own, or of my party, 
I have had a share in wronging or oppressing any description of 
men, or any one man in any description. No ! the charges against 
me are all of one kind, that I have pushed the principles of gene- 
ral justice and benevolence too far; further than a cautious policy 
would warrant ; and further than the opinions of many would go 
along with me. In every accident which may happen through 
life — in pain, in sorrow, in depression, and distress — I will call to 
mind this accusation ; and be comforted. 



1760-1820.] burke. 721 

THE QUEEN OF FRANCE. 

It is now sixteen or seventeen }rears since I saw the Queen 
of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely never 
lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more 
delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating 
and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, — 
glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy! 
Oh ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have, to con 
template without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did 
I dream when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusias- 
tic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry 
the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little 
did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen 
upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor 
and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have 
leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened 
her with insult. — But the age of chivalry is gone. 1 

RIGHTS OF MAN. 

Tf civil society be made for the advantage of man, all the 
advantages for which it is made become his right. It is an insti- 
tution of beneficence ; and law itself is only beneficence acting 
by a rule. Men have a right to live by that rule ; they have a 
right to justice. They have a right to the fruits of their industry; 
and to the means of making their industry fruitful. They have a 
right to the acquisitions of their parents ; to the nourishment ana 
improvement of their offspring ; to instruction in life, and to con- 
solation in death. Whatever each man can separately do, without 
trespassing up'on others, he has a right to do for himself; and he 
has a right to a fair portion of all which society, with all its com- 
binations of skill and force, can do in his favor. 

NOISY POLITICIANS. 

I have often been astonished, considering that we are divided 
from you (the French) but by a slender dyke of about twenty-four 
miles, and that the mutual intercourse between the two countries 
has lately been very great, to find how little you seem to know 
of us. I suspect that this is owing to your forming a judgment 
of this nation from certain publications, which do, very erro- 

1 And well is it that " the age of chivalry is gone," for it was an age of brute force, sanctioned by 
an institution as silly as it was revengeful, bloody, and barbarous. How justly the late accomplished 
Christian scholar, Dr. Arnold, speaks of it: "I confess that if I were called upon to name -vnft 
spirit of evil predominantly deserved the name of Antichrist, I should name the spirit of chivalry- 
the more detestable for the very guise of 'archangel ruined,' which has made it so seductive to the 
most generous spirits, but to me so hateful, because it is in direct opposition to the impartial justice 
of the gospel and its comprehensive feeling of equal brotherhood, and because it so fostered a seuse 
of honor rather than a sense of duty." 

2Z 61 



722 BURKE. [GEORGE III. 

neously, if they do at all, represent the opinions and dispositions 
generally prevalent in England. The vanity, restlessness, petu- 
lance, and spirit of intrigue of several petty cabals, who attempt, 
to hide their total want of consequences in bustle and noise, and 
puffing, and mutual quotation of each other, make you imagine 
that our contemptuous neglect of their abilities is a general mark 
of acquiescence in their opinions. No such thing, I assure you. 
Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field 
ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cat- 
tle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud 
and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise 
are the only inhabitants of the field ; that, of course, they are 
many in number ; or that, after all, they are other than the little, 
shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome, insects 
of the hour, 

burke's lamentation over his son. 

Had it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, 
I should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the medi- 
ocrity of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should 
have left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can 
be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, 
in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every 
liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to 
the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those to whom he traces in his 
line. His grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in 
his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than 
10 me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and sym- 
metrized every disproportion. It would not have* been for that 
successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in 
me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient, living spring, 
of generous and manly action. Every day he lived he would 
have repurchased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, 
if ten times more he had received. He was made a public crea- 
ture ; and had no enjoyment whatever, but in the performance of 
some duty. At this exigent moment, the loss of a finished man 
is not easily supplied. 

But a Disposer whose power we are little able to resist, and 
whose wisdom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it 
in another manner, and (whatever my querulous weakness might 
suggest) a far better. The storm has gone over me ; and I lie 
like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane hath scattered 
about me. I am stripped of all my honors : I am torn up by the 
roots, and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate there, I 
most unfeignedly recognise the divine justice, and in some degree 
submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not 



1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 723 

know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and incon- 
siderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of 
the convulsive struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted him- 
self, and repented in dust and ashes. But even so, I do not find 
him blamed for reprehending, and with a considerable degree of 
verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his, who visited his 
dunghill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his 
misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the 
gate. Indeed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if, in this hard 
season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called 
fame and honor in the world. This is the appetite but of a few. 
It is a luxury ; it is a privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who 
are at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace, as 
we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and disease. It is 
an instinct; and, under the direction of reason, instinct is always 
in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to 
have succeeded me are gone before me. They who should have 
been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to 
the dearest relation (which ever must subsist in memory) that act 
of piety, which he would have performed to me ; I owe it to him 
to show that he was not descended, as the Duke of Bedford would 
have it, from an unworthy parent. Letter t0 a Nobk M 



THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 



In" presenting a series of choice extracts from the whole range of English 
prose literature, it would be almost unpardonable to pass over in silence the 
celebrated " Letters of Junius." That they may be the better understood and 
more keenly relished, especially by the younger portion of our readers, a few- 
words upon the state of the times in which they appeared, as explanatory of 
their object, may, if not absolutely necessary, at least be somewhat interesting. 

George the Third ascended the throne of Great Britain at a very eventful 
period of its history. A war of unexampled extent, and embracing a vast 
variety of interests, was then raging — the "Seven Years' War," (1756 — 63.) 
between Prussia and Austria, in which Great Britain, as well as many of the 
other European powers, unhappily became entangled. Fortunately for Eng- 
land, a ministry of great talents and energy directed the affairs of the nation, 
of which the eider Pitt was the most conspicuous member and the main sup- 
port. But soon after the king's accession it seemed to many that his prin - 
ciples were far more despotic — more inclined to extend the rights of the 
crown, and to abridge the rights of the people, than those which had actuated 
any of his predecessors of the same family. The great Whig families of th« 
kingdom, by the aid of whose ancestois the Revolution had chiefly --^.en 
brought about, thought that their services were slighted and set at naught oy 
a prince who was but a little way removed from that very sovereign whom 
their fathers had placed upon the throne, to the exclusion of a family of arbi- 
trary principles. 



724 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. 

Those feelings and fears were increased by the resignation of William Pitt, 
in 17G1, and by the formation of a new ministry under the Earl of Bute, the 
king's especial favorite. He bad the honor, however, of bringing to a close 
that terrible war which brought so much of " glory' - to Mr. Pitt and the 
nation, along with an overwhelming national debt. To meet the great ex- 
penses of the nation, additional taxes were proposed, both upon the people at 
home, and upon the then American colonies. This. produced great discontent 
on both sides of the Atlantic. The Earl of Bute resigned in 1763, and a new 
ministry was appointed, at the head of which was Lord Grenville, 1763 — 6*5. 
At this time very free, and in many cases virulent discussions were carried 
on in the newspapers of the day, relative to the course of public events. Of 
these, a paper called the "North Briton" was the most violent. It was 
edited by John Wilkes, a member of parliament, who, in consequence of 
some very severe remarks in his paper upon the speech of the king to the 
parliament, was expelled that body. At once he became the idol of the peo- 
ple — offered himself as a candidate to the electors of Westminster — and was 
returned to parliament by a large majority. Parliament, however, declared 
him incapable of resuming his seat ; and hence arose throughout the kingdom 
that remarkable discussion which shook the pillars of the state. 

While the cause of Wilkes was agitating the nation, the question of taxing 
America, and the consequences that might result therefrom, were becoming 
every day more alarming. To add to the general discontent, there was 
a constant change in the administration. Lord Bute was succeeded by 
the Grenville ministry in 1763; Lord Rockingham was appointed prime 
minister in 1765; Lord Chatham formed a new arrangement in 1766; the 
Duke of Grafton another in 1767; and Lord North completed the series in 
1770. Thus the people saw that there was little harmony of views in those 
who were at the helm of state, and who should, in their counsels, especially 
at such a time, be united. 

On the 22d of February, 1770, the Marquis of Rockingham, in his place in 
the House of Lords, moved " that a day be appointed to take into considera- 
tion the state of the NATION. In supporting this motion, he urged, that the 
present unhappy condition of affairs, and the universal discontent of the peo- 
ple, arose from no temporary cause, but had grown by degrees from the first 
moment of his majesty's accession to the throne ; that the persons in whom 
nis majesty then confided had introduced a system subversive of the old prin- 
ciples of English government; their maxim being, that the royal prerogative 
alone was sufficient to support government, to whatever hand the administra- 
tion might be committed. The operation of this principle was observable in 
every act over which the influence of these persons had been exerted ; and 
by a tyrannical exercise of power, they had removed from their places, not 
the great and dignified only, but numberless innocent families, who had sub- 
sisted on small salaries, and were now turned out to misery and ruin. By 
this injustice — by the taxes which had been, imposed at home — by the in- 
decent management of the civil list — by the mode of taxing and treating 
America — by the recent invasion of the freedom of election — in short, by 
every procedure at home and abroad, the constitution had been wounded, 
and the worst effects had resulted to the nation. He therefore recommended 
it strongly to their lordships, to fix an early day for taking into consideration 
the state of the country, in all its relations, foreign, provincial, and domestic ; 
for it had been injured in thern all. That consideration, he hoped, would lead 
them to advise the crown to correct past errors, and to establish a system of 



1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OE JUNIUS. 725 

government more suited to the people, and more consistent with the consti- 
tution." 

It was at this period, when the public mind was thus intensely agitated, 
that the celebrated " Letters of Junius" appeared. They were published in the 
''Public Advertiser" of London, a paper printed by Mr. Woodfall; 1 one of 
the highest respectability, and which had the most extensive circulation in 
the kingdom. The first of these letters was dated January 21, 1769, and the 
last, January 21, 1772. No sooner did they appear, than they attracted uni- 
versal attention. The author, 2 whoever he was, was evidently no common 
man. To a minute, exact, as well as comprehensive knowledge of public 
affairs, he added a moral courage and dignity, a fearlessness in exposing the 
corruptions and the blunders of the government, a just and manly sense of the 
rights and interests of the people, and a scholarship that showed itself in a 
style of such unrivalled clearness, grace, and elegance, united to a condensa- 
tion, energy, precision, and strength, that at once commanded the attention 
and admiration of the nation. Even his adversaries, at the very moment 
when his satire and invective were producing their most powerful effect, 
never failed to compliment him on the classical correctness, the attic wit, the 
figurative beauty, and the manly power of his language. 

The first quality of style that will strike the reader of Junius, is the studied 
energy and great compression of his language. There is not only no super- 
fluous sentence, but there is no superfluous word in any of his sentences. He 
seems to have aimed at this quality with the greatest care, as best suited to 
the style and character of his mode of thinking, and best accommodated to 
the high attitude which he assumed, as the satirist and judge, not of ordinary 
men or common authors, but of the most elevated and distinguished person- 
ages, and institutions of his country; of a person who seemed to feel himself 
called on to treat majesty itself with perfect freedom ; and before whom the 
supreme wisdom and might of the great councils of the state stood rebuked 
and in fear. 

But of all the varied powers that Junius has displayed, none is so pecu- 
liarly and entirely his own, as his power of sarcasm. Other authors deal 
occasionally in it, but with Junius it is more general ; and whenever he rises 
to his highest sphere, he assumes the air of a being who delights to taunt and 
to mock his adversary. He refuses to treat him as a person who should be 
seriously dealt with, and pours out his contempt or indignation under an im- 
posing affectation of deference and respect. His talent for sarcasm, too, is of 
the finest kind : it is so carefully but so poignantly exerted, that it is neces- 
sary to watch his words to perceive all the satire which they contain. Thus 
we may have an impression that the author is only speaking in his natural 
style, when he is employing a mode of annoyance which it requires the utmost 
address and skill to manage. But when his irony is perceived, it strikes like 
a poniard, and the wound which it makes is such as cannot be closed. In- 
deed, there is, perhaps, no author who possesses this quality in the same pel 
fection, or who has exerted it With the same effect. 

But the style of Junius, admirable as it is, cannot be proposed as a model 
for general imitation. " It is too epigrammatic — too much characterized by 
the tone of invective — and too strongly compressed, to be used by any mi ad 

1 Woodfall wa3 afterwards tried for these alleged "libellous publications," before Lord Mansfield 
and though his lordship did all he could that he might be convicted, the jury acquitted him, and thus 
established, on an immovable foundation, the freedom of the press. 

a See Burke's admirable description of him, on p. 718. 

61* 



726 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE HI. 

but one similar to that of its author, and, it may be added, but for purposes 
resembling those for which he employed it. Few authors, accordingly, have 
attempted to imitate the style of Junius, and the few that have attempted it 
have not succeeded. His style was exquisitely fitted for the purpose to which 
he destined it, and should be studied, carefully and repeatedly, by those who 
would see the English language in one of its happiest forms. But the nerve 
of Junius must belong to the man who can hope to use, successfully, the in- 
strument which he used ; for that instrument was fitted to his grasp, and 
among ordinary men there are none who can pretend to wield it." ' 



FROM THE DEDICATION TO THE ENGLISH NATION. 

I dedicate to you a collection of Letters, written by one of your- 
selves for the common benefit of us all. They would never have 
grown to this size, without your continued encouragement and 
applause. To me they originally owe nothing, but a healthy, 
sanguine constitution. Under your care they have thriven. To 
you they are indebted for whatever strength or beauty they pos- 
sess. When kings and ministers are forgotten, when the force 
and direction of personal satire is no longer understood, and when 
measures are only felt in their remotest consequences, this book 
will, I believe, be found to contain principles worthy to be trans- 
mitted to posterity. When you leave the unimpaired, hereditary 
freehold to your children, you do but half your duty. 2 Both liberty 
and property are precarious, unless the possessors have sense and 
spirit enough to defend them. This is not the language of vanity. 
If I am a vain man, my gratification lies within a narrow circle. 
I am the sole depositary of my own secret, and it shall perish 
with me. 3 

I cannot doubt that you will unanimously assert the freedom of 
election, and vindicate your exclusive right to choose your repre- 
sentatives. But other questions have been started, on which your 
determination should be equally clear and unanimous. Let it be 
impressed upon your minds, let it be instilled into your children, 
that the liberty of the press is the palladium of all the civil, poli- 
tical, and religious rights of an Englishman, and that the right of 
juries to return a general verdict, in all cases whatsoever, is an 
essential part of our constitution, not to be controlled or limited by 
the judges, nor in any shape questionable by the legislature. The 
power of king, lords, and commons, is not an arbitrary power. 
They are the trustees, not the owners of the estate. The fee- 

1 Woodfall's is generally considered the best edition of Junius; but an admirable one is that pub- 
lished by Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1822, with notes and preliminary dissertations, and to which 1 
am indebted for a portion of the above remarks. 

2 By hereditary freehold he evidently means the constitution in its original purity. 

8 The author of the "Letters of Junius" is now clearly ascertained to be Sir Philip Francis. See 
a very interesting letter from Lady Francis, in Lord Campbell's " Lives of the Chancellors," vol vi. 
p. Wi, American edition. 



1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 727 

simple is in us. They cannot alienate, they cannot waste. When 
we say that the legislature is supreme, we mean that it is the 
highest power known to the constitution : — that it is the highest 
in comparison with the other subordinate powers established by 
the laws. In this sense, the word supreme is relative, not abso- 
lute. The power of the legislature is limited, not only by the 
general rules of natural justice, and the welfare of the community, 
but by the forms and principles of our particular constitution. If 
this doctrine be not true, we must admit that king, lords, and com- 
mons have no rule to direct their resolutions, but merely their own 
will and pleasure. They might unite the legislative and execu- 
tive power in the same hands, and dissolve the constitution by an 
act of parliament. But I am persuaded you will not leave it to the 
choice of seven hundred persons, notoriously corrupted bythecrown, 
whether seven millions of their equals shall be freemen or slaves. 
These are truths unquestionable. — If they make no impression, 
it is because they are too vulgar and notorious. But the inatten- 
tion or indifference of the nation has continued too long. You 
are roused at last to a sense of your danger. — The remedy will 
soon be in your power. If Junius lives, you shall often be re- 
minded of it. If, when the opportunity presents itself, you neg- 
lect to do your duty to yourselves and to posterity, — to God and 
to your country, I shall have one consolation left, in common with 
the meanest and basest of mankind — civil liberty may still last 
the life of Junius. 

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 1 

My Lord: — You are so little accustomed to receive any marks 
of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following lines, 
a compliment or expression of applause should escape me, I fe&r 
you would consider it as a mockery of your established character, 
and, perhaps, an insult to your understanding. You have nice 
feelings, my lord, if we may judge from your resentments. Cau- 
tious, therefore, of giving offence, where you have so little de- 
served it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues to other 
hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the easiness 
of your temper, or possibly they are better acquainted with your 
good qualities than I am. You have done good by stealth. The 
rest is upon record. You have still left ample room for specula- 
tion, when panegyric is exhausted. 

You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest rank ; 
a splendid fortune ; and a name, glorious till it was yours, were 
sufficient to have supported you with meaner abilities than I think 

1 This is one of the most labored of our author's letters : and perhaps there is none of them which 
displays, in so striking a manner, his unrelenting spirit. 



728 THE LETTERS OE JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. 

you possess. From the first you derived a constitutional claim to 
respect ; from the second, a natural extensive authority ; — the last 
created a partial expectation of hereditary virtues. The use you 
have made of these uncommon advantages might have been more 
honorable to yourself, but could not be more instructive to man- 
kind. We may trace it in the veneration of your country, the 
choice of your friends, and in the accomplishment of every san- 
guine hope, which the public might have conceived from the illus- 
trious name of Russell. 

The eminence of your station gave you a commanding prospect 
of your duty. The road, which led to honor, was open to your 
view. You could not lose it by mistake, and you had no tempta- 
tion to depart from it by design. Compare the natural dignity 
and importance of the richest peer of England ; — the noble inde- 
pendence, which he might have maintained in parliament, and the 
real interest and respect, which he might have acquired, not only 
in parliament, but through the whole kingdom ; compare these 
glorious distinctions with the ambition of holding a share in go- 
vernment, the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough, or 
the purchase of a corporation ; and though you may not regret the 
virtues which create respect, you may see, with anguish, how 
much real importance and authority you have lost. Consider the 
character of an independent, virtuous Duke of Bedford; imagine 
what he might be in this country, then reflect one moment upon 
what you are. If it be possible for me to withdraw my attention 
from the fact, I will tell you in theory what such a man might be. 

Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct in 
parliament would be directed by nothing but the constitutional 
duty of a peer. He would consider himself as a guardian of the 
laws. Willing to support the just measures of government, but 
determined to observe the conduct of the minister with suspicion, 
he would oppose the violence of faction with as much firmness as 
the encroachments of prerogative. He would be as little capable 
of bargaining with the minister for places for himself, or his de- 
pendants, as of descending to mix himself in the intrigues of oppo- 
sition. Whenever an important question called for his opinion in 
parliament, he would be heard, by the most profligate minister, 
with deference and respect. His authority would either sanctify 
or disgrace the measures of government. The people would look 
up 10 him as to their protector, and a virtuous prince would have 
one honest man in his dominions, in whose integrity and judg- 
ment he might safely confide. If it should be the will of Provi- 
dence to afflict him with a domestic misfortune, 1 he would submit 
to the stroke, with feeling, but not without dignity. He would 

1 The duke lately lost his only son by a fall from his horse. 



1700-1820.] TIIE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 729 

consider the people as his children, and receive a generous heartfelt 
consolation, in the sympathizing tears and blessings of his country. 
Your grace may probably discover something more intelligible 
in the negative part of this illustrious character. The man I have 
described would never prostitute his dignity in parliament by an 
indecent violence either in opposing or defending a minister. He 
would not at one moment rancorously persecute, at another basely 
cringe to the favorite of his sovereign After outraging the royal 
dignity with peremptory conditions, little short of menace and 
hostility, he would never descend to the humility of soliciting an 
interview with the favorite, and of offering to recover, at any 
price, the honor of his friendship. Though deceived perhaps in 
his youth, he would not, through the course of a long life, have 
invariably chosen his friends from among the most profligate of 
mankind. His own honor would have forbidden him from mixing 
his private pleasures or conversation with jockeys, gamesters, 
blasphemers, gladiators, or buffoons. He would then have never 
felt, much less would he have submitted to the humiliating, dis- 
honest necessity of engaging in the interest and intrigues of his 
dependants, of supplying their vices, or relieving their beggary, 
at the expense of his country. He would not have betrayed such 
ignorance, or such contempt of the constitution, as openly to avow, 
in a court of justice, the purchase and sale of a borough. He 
would not have thought it consistent with his rank in the state, or 
even with his personal importance, to be the little tyrant of a little 
corporation. He would never have been insulted with virtues 
which he had labored to extinguish, nor suffered the disgrace of a 
mortifying defeat, which has made him ridiculous and contempti- 
ble, even to the few by whom he was not detested. I reverence 
the afflictions of a good many — his sorrows are sacred. But how 
can we take part in the distresses of a man whom we can neither 
love nor esteem ; or feel for a calamity of which he himself is in- 
sensible ? Where was the father's heart, when he could look for, 
or find an immediate consolation for the loss of an only son, in 
consultations and bargains for a place at court, and even m the 
misery of balloting at the India House ! 

FROM HIS LETTER TO THE KING. 1 

To the Printer of the " Public Advertiser." 

When the complaints of a brave and powerful people are ob- 
served to increase in proportion to the wrongs they have suffered; 

1 This celebrated letter to the king is, perhaps, the most remarkable political address ever pu.>- • 
lished in England. At the time of its appearance it made a very great impression upon the public 
mind; and the importance which the author himself attached to it, is evinced by the following note 
which he addressed to his printer, announcing it: "I am now meditating a capital, and I hope a 
final feue." 



730 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. 

when, instead of sinking into submission, they are roused to resist- 
ance, the time will soon arrive at which every inferior considera- 
tion must yield to the security of the sovereign, and to the general 
safety of the state. There is a moment of difficulty and danger, 
at which flattery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and sim- 
plicity itself can no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived. 
Let us suppose a gracious, well-intentioned prince, made sensible 
at last of the great duty he owes to his people, and of his own 
disgraceful situation ; that he looks round him for assistance, and 
asks for no advice, but how to gratify the wishes, and secure the 
happiness of his subjects. In these circumstances, it may be 
matter of curious speculation to consider, if an honest man were 
permitted to approach a king, in what terms he would address 
himself to his sovereign. Let it be imagined, no matter how im- 
probable, that the first prejudice against his character is removed; 
that the ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted ; 
that he feels himself animated by the purest and most honorable 
affections to his king and country : and that the great person, whom 
he addresses, has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and un- 
derstanding enough to listen to him with attention. Unacquainted 
with the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his senti- 
ments with dignity and firmness, but not without respect. 

Sir : — It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the cause 
of every reproach and distress which has attended your government, 
that you should never have been acquainted with the language of 
truth, until you heard it in the complaints of your people. It is 
not, however, too late to correct the error of your education. 
We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance for the 
pernicious lessons you received in your youth, and to form the 
most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of your dispo- 
sition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, delibe- 
rate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects, on 
which all their civil and political liberties depend. Had it been 
possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonorable to your 
character, we should long since have adopted a style of remon- 
strance very distant from the humility of complaint. The doctrine 
inculcated by our laws, That the king can do no wrong, is ad- 
mitted without reluctance. We separate the amiable, good-natured 
prince, from the folly and treachery of his servants, and the pri- 
vate virtues of the man, from the vices of his government. Were 
it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your majesty's 
condition, or that of the English nation, would deserve most to be 
lamented. I would prepare your mind for a favorable reception 
of truth, by removing every painful offensive idea of personal re- 
proach. Your subjects, sir, wish for nothing but that, as they are 
reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your person from 



1760-1820.] THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. 731 

your government, so you, in your turn, should distinguish between 
the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity of a king, and 
that which serves only to promote the temporary interest and 
miserable ambition of a minister. 

You ascended the throne with a declared, and, I doubt not, a 
sincere resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects. 
You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince, 
whose countenance promised even more than his words, and loyal 
to you, not only from principle, but passion. It was not a cold 
profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, ani- 
mated attachment to a favorite prince, the native of their country. 
They did not wait to examine your conduct, nor to be determined 
by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future bless- 
ings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of 
their affections. Such, sir, was once the disposition of a people, 
who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints. 
Do justice to yourself. Banish from your mind those unworthy 
opinions with which some interested persons have labored to pos- 
sess you. Distrust the men who tell you that the English are 
naturally light and inconstant ; — that they complain without a 
cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties— from 
ministers, favorites, and relations ; "and let there be one moment in 
your life in which you have consulted your own understanding. 

You have still an honorable part to act. The affections of your 
subjects may still be recovered. But before you subdue their 
hearts, you must gain a noble victory over your own. Discard 
those little, personal resentments which have too long directed 
your public conduct. Pardon this man 1 the remainder of his pun- 
ishment ; and if resentment still prevails, make it, what it should 
have been long since, an act not of mercy, but contempt. He 
will soon fall back into his natural station, — a silent senator, and 
hardly supporting the weekly eloquence of a newspaper. The 
gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglected 
and unremoved. It is only the tempest that lifts him from his 
place. 

Without consulting your minister, call together your whole 
council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and 
act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the 
wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects with 
the spirit of a man, and in the language of a gentleman. Tell 
them you have been fatally deceived. The acknowledgment will 
be no disgrace, but rather an honor to your understanding. Tell 
them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint 
against your government ; that you will give your confidence to 



732 THE LETTERS OF JUNIUS. [GEORGE III. 

no man who does not possess the confidence of your subjects ; 
and leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a 
future election, whether or no it be in reality the general sense of 
the nation, that their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the 
present House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They 
will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves. 

These sentiments, sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may 
be offensive, perhaps, because they are new to you. Accustomed 
to the language of courtiers, you measure their affections by the 
vehemence of their expressions ; and, when they only praise you 
indirectly, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to 
trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, sir, who tell you that 
you have many friends whose affections are founded upon a prin- 
ciple of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship 
is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality with which 
they are received, and may be returned. The fortune, which 
made you a king, forbade you to have a friend. It is a law cf 
nature which cannot be violated with impunity. The mistaken 
prince, who looks for friendship, will find a favorite, and in that 
favorite the ruin of his affairs. 

The people of England are loyal to the house of Hanover, not 
from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a con- 
viction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the 
support of their civil and religious liberties. This, sir, is a prin- 
ciple of allegiance equally solid and rational: — fit for Englishmen 
to adopt, and well worthy of your majesty's encouragement. We 
cannot long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of 
Stuart, of itself, is only contemptible ; — armed with the sovereign 
authority, their principles are formidable. The prince, who imi- 
tates their conduct, should be warned by their example ; and 
while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the 
crown, should remember, that as it was acquired by one revolu- 
tion, it may be lost by another. Junius. 

ENCOMIUM ON LORD CHATHAM. 

It seems I am a partisan of the great leader of the opposition 
If the charge had been a reproach, it should have been better sup- 
ported. I did not intend to make a public declaration of the 
respect I bear Lord Chatham. I well knew what unworthy con- 
clusions would be drawn from it. But I am called upon to de- 
liver my opinion, and surely it is not in the little censure of Mr. 
Home to deter me from doing signal justice to a man, who, I con- 
fess, has grown upon my esteem. As for the common, sordid 
views of avarice, or any purpose of vulgar ambition, I question 
whether the applause of Junius would be of service to Lord Chat- 



1760-1820.] THE LETTEKS OF JUNIUS. "f 33 

ham. My vote will hardly recommend him to an increase of his 
pension, or to a seat in the cabinet. But if his ambition be upon 
a level with his understanding ; — if he judges of what is truly 
honorable for himself, with the same superior genius which ani- 
mates and directs him to eloquence in debate, to wisdom in deci 
sion, even the pen of Junius shall contribute to reward him. 
Recorded honors shall gather round his monument, and thicken 
over him. It is a solid fabric, and will support the laurels that 
adorn it. I am not conversant in the language of panegyric. — 
These praises are extorted from me ; but they will wear well, for 
they have been dearly earned. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD CAMDEN. 

My Lord : — I turn, with pleasure, from that barren waste in 
which no salutary plant takes root, no verdure quickens, to a cha- 
racter fertile, as I willingly believe, in every great and good quali- 
fication. I call upon you, in the name of the English nation, to 
stand forth in defence of the laws of your country, and to exert, 
in the cause of truth and justice, those great abilities with which 
you were intrusted for the benefit of mankind. Your lordship's 
character assures me that you will assume that principal part, 
which belongs to you, in supporting the laws of England, against 
a wicked judge, who makes it the occupation of his life to mis- 
interpret and pervert them. If you decline this honorable office, 
I fear it will be said that, for some months past, you have kept too 
much company with the Duke of Grafton. When the contest 
turns upon the interpretation of the laws, you cannot, witho.it a 
formal surrender of all your reputation, yield the post of honor 
even to Lord Chatham. Considering the situation and abilities 
of Lord Mansfield, I do not scruple to affirm, with the most solemn 
appeal to God for my sincerity, that, in my judgment, he is the 
very worst and most dangerous man in the kingdom. Thus far I 
have done my duty in endeavoring to bring him to punishment. 
But mine is an inferior, ministerial office in the temple of justice. 

— I have bound the victim, and dragged him to the altar. 
* * * * * # 

The man, who fairly and completely answers my arguments, 
shall have my thanks and my applause. My heart is already 
with him. — I am ready to be converted. — I admire his morality 
and would gladly subscribe to the articles of his faith. Grateful, 
as I am, to the Good Being whose bounty has imparted to me this 
reasoning intellect, whatever it is, I hold myself proportionally 
indebted to him from whose enlightened understanding another 
ray of knowledge communicates to mine. But neither should I 
think the most exalted faCv\lties of the human mind a gift worthv 

62 



734 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

of the divinity; nor any assistance, in the improvement of them, 
a subject of gratitude to my fellow-creature, if I were not satisfied, 
that really to inform the understanding corrects and enlarges the 
heart. Junius. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 1731—1800. 

William Cowper, "the most popular poet of his generation, and the best 
of English letter-writers," as the poet Sou they terms him, was born in Berk- 
hampstead, in Bedfordshire, Nov. 15, 1731. His father, the Rer. John Cow- 
per, was the rector of that place. From infancy he had a delicate and 
extremely susceptible constitution, — a misfortune that was aggravated by the 
loss of an affectionate mother, who died when he was only six years old. The 
intense love with which he cherished her memory during the rest of his life, 
may be known from that most affecting poem which he wrote on contem- 
plating her picture. At the age of ten he was sent to Westminster School, 
where he stayed till he was eighteen ; and though he pursued his studies dili- 
gently while there, he could never look back upon those years without horror, 
as he remembered the despotic tyranny exercised over him by the older 
boys: — a shameful practice, still, in a degree, maintained in the English 
schools. 

After leaving school, he spent three years in an attorney's office, and then 
entered the Middle Temple, in which he continued eleven years, devoting 
his time, however, to poetry and general literature more than to law. In 176 J 
the offices of clerk of the journals, reading clerk, and clerk of the committees 
of the House of Lords, which were all at the disposal of a cousin of Cow- 
per's, became vacant about the same time. The two last were conferred on 
Cowper, but the idea of appearing and reading before the House of Lords so 
overwhelmed him, that he resigned the offices almost as soon as they were 
accepted. But as his patrimony was nearly spent, his friends procured for 
him the office of clerk of the journals, thinking that his personal appearance 
at the House would not be required. But he was unexpectedly summoned 
to an examination at the bar of the House, before he could be allowed to take 
the office. The thoughts of this so preyed upon his mind, as to shatter his 
reason, and he actually made attempts upon his own life. He was therefore 
removed to the house of Dr. Cotton, at St. Albans, with whom he continued 
ibout eighteen months. 

On his recovery he was so fortunate as to find friends who were able to 
soothe his melancholy, direct his genius, and make his time pass happily 
away. In June, 1765, his brother took him to Huntingdon to board. Here 
he was introduced to the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin, who was the clergy- 
man of the place. It consisted of the father, Mrs. Unwin, and a son and 
daughter just arrived at majority. Cowper says of them, in one of his let- 
ters, " they are the most agreeable people imaginable ; quite sociable, and as 
free from the ceremonious civility of country gentlefolks as any I ever met 
with. They treat me more like a near relation than a stranger, and their 
house is always open to me." Much tc his joy, they agreed to receive him 
into theLr house as a boarder. He had been there, however, but two years, 
when Mr. Unwin, senior, died, and Cowper accompanied Mrs. Unwin and 



1760-1820.] cowper. 735 

her daughter to a new residence, which they chose at Olney, in But .dngnam- 
shire. Here he formed an intimate friendship with the Rev. Mr. Newton of 
that place, with whom he long maintained a Christian intercourse, delightful 
and profitable to both parties. 

In 1773 Cowper was visited by a second attack of mental derangement, 
which showed itself in paroxysms of extreme religious despondency. It 
lasted for about four years, during which period Mrs. Unwin watched over 
him with a tenderness and devotion truly maternal. As he began to recover, 
he betook himself to various amusements, such as taming hares and making 
bird-cages, which pastimes he diversified with light reading. Hitherto his 
poetic faculties had lain nearly dormant; but in the winter of 1780-81 he 
prepared the first volume of his poems for the press, consisting of " Table- 
Talk," "Hope," "The Progress of Error," * Charity," &c, which was pub- 
lished in 1782, but it did not attract much attention till the appearance of 
« The Task." 

In the same year that he published his first volume, an elegant and accom- 
plished visitant came to Olney, with whom Cowper formed an acquaintance 
that was, for some time, a most delightful one to him. This was Lady Austen, 
the widow of Sir Robert Austen. She had wit, gayety, agreeable manners, 
and elegant taste. While she enlivened Cowper's unequal spirits by her con- 
versation, she was also the task-mistress of his Muse. He began his great 
original poem, " The Task," at her suggestion, 1 and was exhorted by her to 
undertake the translation of Homer. So much cheerfulness seems to have 
beamed upon his sequestered life from the influence of her society, that he 
gave her the endearing appellation of Sister Anne. 2 But his devoted old 
friend, Mrs. Unwin, looked with no little jealousy upon the ascendency of a 
female, so much more fascinating than herself, over Cowper's mind ; and, 
appealing to his gratitude for her past services, she gave him his choice of 
either renouncing Lady Austen's acquaintance or her own. Cowper decided 
upon adhering to the friend who had watched over him in his deepest afflic- 
tions ; and sent Lady Austen a valedictory letter, couched in terms of regret 
and regard, but which necessarily put an end to their acquaintance. Whether 
in making this decision he sacrificed a passion or only a friendship for Lady 
Austen, it is now impossible to tell ; but it has been said that the remem- 
brance of a deep and devoted attachment of his youth was never effaced by 
any succeeding impressions of the same nature; and that his fondness for 
Lady Austen was as platonic as for Mary Unwin. The sacrifice, however, 
cost him much pain ; and is, perhaps, as much to be admired as regretted. 3 

1 One day Lady Austen requested him to try his powers on blank verse : "But," said he, " I have 

no subject." " Oh you can write on any thing," she replied ; " take this sofa." Hence the bv ginning 

of the Task, 

I sing the Sofa. * * * 

The theme, though humble, yet august and proud 

Th' occasion— for the fair commands the song. 

2 " Lady Austen's conversation had as happy an effect upon the melancholy spirit of Cowper as 
the harp of David upon Saul. Whenever the cloud seemed to be coming over him, her sprightly 
powers were exerted to dispel it. One afternoon, (Oct., 1782,) when he appeared more than usually 
depressed, she told him the story of John Gilpin, which had been told to her in her childhood, and 
which, in her relation, tickled his fancy as much as it has that of thousands and tens of thousands 
since, in his. The next morning he said to her that he had been kept awake during the greater part 
of the night by thinking of the story and laughing at it, and that he had turned it into a ballad. The 
ballad was sent to Mr. Unwin, who said, in reply, that it had made him laugh tears."— Soutkey. 

3 See Campbell's Specimens, vol. vii. p. 340. 



736 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

In 1784 appeared nis « Task," a poem which, as Hazlitt well remarks, con- 
tains "a number of pictures of domestic comfort and social refinement which 
can hardly be forgotten but with the language itself The same year he 
began his " Tirocinium," a poem on the subject of education, the object of 
which was to censure the want of discipline, and the inattention to morals, 
which prevailed in public schools. In the same year also he commenced his 
translation of Homer, which was finished in 1791, and which is, on the 
whole, the best translation of Homer that we possess : that is, it gives us the 
best idea of the style and manner and sentiments of the great Grecian bard : 
for having adopted blank verse, he had to make no sacrifices of meaning or 
language to rhyme. 

In the mean time, the loss of Lady Austen was, in a degree, made up by 
his cousin Lady Hesketh, who, two years after the publication of "The Task," 
paid him a visit at Olney, and settling at Weston Hall, in the immediate 
neighborhood, provided a comfortable abode for him and Mrs. Unwin there, 
to which they removed in 1786; and here he executed his translation of 
Homer. 

In 1792, the poet Hayley, afterwards his biographer, made him a visit at 
Weston, having corresponded with him previously. Of him, Cowper, in 
one of his letters, thus writes : " Everybody here has fallen in love with 
him, and wherever he goes everybody must. We have formed a friendship 
that, I trust, will last for life, and render us an edifying example to all future 
poets." While Hayley was with him, Mrs. Unwin had a severe paralytic 
stroke, which rendered her helpless for the rest of her life. To this most 
excellent woman, to whom we are indebted, perhaps, as the instrument of 
preserving Cowper's reason, and it may be his life, he addressed one of the 
most touching, and perhaps the most widely known of all his poems — " To 
Mary." Mr. Hayley says he believes it to be the last original piece he pro- 
duced at Weston, and that he doubts whether any language on earth can 
exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender. 

In 1794 his unhappy malady returned upon him with increased violence, 
and Lady Hesketh, with most commendable zeal and disinterestedness, de- 
voted herself to the care of the two invalids. Mr. Hayley found him, on a 
third visit, plunged into a sort of melancholy torpor, so that when it was an- 
nounced to him that his majesty had bestowed on him a pension of .£300 a 
year, he seemed to take no notice of it. The next year it was thought best 
for both Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, that their location should be changed, and 
accordingly they were removed to the house of his kinsman, Mr. Johnson, at 
North Tuddenham, in Norfolk. The removal, however, had no good effect 
upon either, and the next year Mrs. Unwin died. Cowper would not believe 
she was dead, when the event was broken to him, and desired to see her. 
Mr. Johnson accompanied him to the room where lay her remains. He 
looked upon her for a few moments, then started away with a vehement, un- 
finished exclamation of angiush, and never afterwards uttered her name. 

In the year 1799, some power of exertion returned to him; he completed 
the revisal of his Homer, and wrote the last original piece that he ever com- 
posed — " The Cast-Away." It is founded on an incident mentioned in one 
of Anson's Voyages, and when we consider the circumstances under which 
it was written, and the* parallelism constantly preying upon the diseased 
mind of the author, it is one of the most affecting pieces that ever was com- 
posed. His ov, n end was now drawing near, and on the 5th of April, 1800, 
he breathed his last. 



1730-1820.] cowper. 737 

Covvper is eminently the David of English poetry, pouring forth, like the 
great Hebrew bard, his own deep and warm feelings in behalf of moral and 
religious truth. "His language," says Campbell, "has such a masculine, 
idiomatic strength, and his manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into 
negligence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry 
with a deeper conviction of its sentiments having come from the author's 
heart ; and of the enthusiasm, in whatever he describes, having been un- 
feigned and unexaggerated. He impresses us w'ith the idea of a being, 
whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to 
be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an un- 
worldly degree of purity and simplicity." And a writer in the Retrospective 
Review remarks, that "the delightful freedom of his manner, so acceptable 
to those who had long been accustomed to a poetical school, of which the 
radical fault was constraint; his noble and tender morality; his fervent 
piety ; his glowing and well-expressed patriotism ; his descriptions, unparal- 
leled in vividness and accuracy since Thomson; his playful humor and his 
powerful satire ; the skilful construction of his verse, at least in the ' Task,' 
and the refreshing variety of that fascinating poem, — all together conspired to 
render him highly popular, both among the multitude of common readers, 
and among those who, possessed of poetical powers themselves, w ere capable 
of intimately appreciating those of a real poet." 

We might thus fill many pages with encomiastic remarks upon the poetry 
of Cowper, but the reader would rather taste of the original for himself.' 

THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD IN ALL THINGS. 

Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd 
In all the good and ill that checker life ! 
Resolving all events, with their effects 
And manifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns ; (since from the least 
The greatest oft originate ;) could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
Une lawless particle to thwart his plan; 
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
This truth, Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
And, having found his instrument, forgets, 
Ur disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims 
His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
That live an atheist life ; involves the heaven 
In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 

1 Road— Hayley's Life, a most interesting piece of biography— Grimshaw's Life, prefixed to his edi- 
tion in 8 vols., and Southey's Life, prefixed to his edition in 15 vols. The latter is the best edition of 
the poet. Read, also, articles in the Edinburgh Review, ii. 64, and iv. 273, and in the Quarterly xvi. 
116, and xxx. 185. Also, an article in Jeffrey's Miscellanies. An admirable dissertation on the pro- 
gress of English poetry, from Chaucer to Cowper, will be found in vol. ii. chap. 12, of Southey's edi- 
tion of Lhe poet. 

3 A 62* 



738 COWPER. [GEORGE TIL 

Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, 

And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. 

He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 

Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, 

And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, 

And desolates a nation at a blast. 

Forth steps the spruce Philosopher, and tells 

Of homogeneal and discordant springs, 

And principles ; of causes, how they work 

By necessary laws their sure effects 

Of action and reaction : he has found 

The source of the disease that nature feels, 

And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 

Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause 

Suspend the effect, or heal if? Has not God 

Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 

And did he not of old employ his means 

To drown it ? What is his creation less 

Than a capacious reservoir of means, 

Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? 

Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of Him, 

Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 

And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 

Teak, ii. 161. 

THE WOUNDED SPIRIT HEALED. 

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd 
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I found by one who had himself 
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
He drew them forth, and heard, and bade me live. 

Task, iil. 108. 

TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 

Philosophy, baptized 
In the pure fountain of eternal love, 
Has eyes indeed ; and viewing all she sees 
As meant to indicate a God to man, 
Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
On all her branches : Piety has found 
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage ! 
Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
And in His word sagacious. Such, too, thine, 
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 
And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 
Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, 
And sound integrity, not more than famed 
For sanctity of manners undefiled. Tatk > iU - 1 43 



1760-1820.] cowper. 739 

THE GEOLOGIST AND COSMOLOGIST. 1 

Some drill and bore 
The solid earth, and from the strata there 
Extract a register, by which we learn 
That he who made it and reveal'd its date 
To Moses, was mistaken in its age. 
Some, more acute and more industrious still, 
Contrive creation ; travel nature up 
To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, 
And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fixt, 
And planetary some ; what gave them first 
Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. 
Great contest follows, and much learned dust 
Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth, 
And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend 
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp 
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws 
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 



Task, iii. 150. 



SLAVERY. 3 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax, 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not color'd like his own ; and having power 
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplored, 



1 In the early history of geology many good and pious people were concerned, lest snch discoveries 
should be made as would invalidate the Mosaic account of the creation. But how groundless have 
all their fears proved ! Truth is one, and God's works can never be in conflict with his Word. Of 
the whole race of " spruce philosophers," as Cowper calls them, even the infidel Voltaire could thus 
write : " Philosophers put themselves, without ceremony, in the place of God, and destroy and renew 
the world after their own fashion." "From the time of Buffon," says Dr. Wiseman, in his learned 
Lectures on Science and Revealed Religion, " system rose beside system, like the moving pillars of 
the desert, advancing in threatening array; but like them they were fabrics of sand; and though in 
1806 the French Institute counted more than eighty such theories of geology hostile to Scripture his- 
tory, not one of them has stood till now, or deserves to be recorded." And Turner, in his learned 
work on Chemistry, says, " Of all the wonders of geology, none is so wonderful as the confidence of 
the several theorists." 

2 Upon this and other pieces of Cowper, in behalf of the poor slave, the poet Campbell thus truth- 
fully as well as feelingly remarks: "Poetical expositions of the horrors of slavery may, indeed. 
8eem very unlikely agents in contributing to destroy it; and it is possible that the most refined 
planter in the West Indies, may look with neither shame nor compunction on his own imagt, ex- 
posed in the pages of Cowper, as a being degraded by giving stripes and tasks to his fellow crea- 
tures. But such appeals to the heart of the community are not lost. They fix themselves silently ui 
the popular memory, and they become, at last, a part of that public opinion, whicn must, sooner oi 
later, wrench the lash from the hand of the oppressor.'*— Specimens, vii. 304. 



740 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush, 

And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 

I would not have a slave to till my ground, 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 

That sinews bought and sold have ever eam'd. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 1 

Task, ii. 8. 

KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. 

Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells 
In. heads replete with thoughts of other men; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, 
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much ; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 

Task. vi. 88. 
MERCY TO ANIMALS. 

I would not enter on my list of friends, 
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense, 

1 When Cowper wrote these lines, nearly a million of African slaves toiled in the British colonies, 
but the English abolitionists, led on by Sharpe, and Clarkson, and Wilberforce, so earnestly por- 
trayed their wrongs and plead their cause, that the great heart of the nation became at length fully 
aroused to the subject, and they were declared absolutely and unconditionally free on the 1st of Au- 
gust, 1838. 

It was predicted that theft, and plunder, and murder, would be the consequence, and the 1st of 
August was anticipated by all with the most intense interest. It came and passed with all the 
solemnity of a Sabbath-day. The houses of worship were thronged the preceding evening, to wel- 
come the advent of Liberty, and as the clock tolled out the hour of midnight, the assembled populace 
bowed the knee in prayer and praise to the God who had bestowed it. Not a blow was struck in 
revenge — not an arm upraised in riot. 

Ten years have now elapsed, and they have borne witness to the constantand rapid improvement 
of the freedmen. Their food, clothing, and furniture are much better: nearly every family has a 
horse or a mule, and very many have several. They are willing to work steadily for moderate 
wages, and most of them remain on the estates of their former masters. Many have purchased land, 
and it is estimated that there are now 20,000 freeholders among the emancipated peasantry of Jamaica 
alone. Marriage is now "honorable" among them; the parental relation is better understood, and 
Its duties better performed; education is appreciated ; and churches have multiplied. The freedmen 
contribute liberally towards sustaining the ministration of the gospel among themselves, and are 
already beginning to stretch out their hands, and to send forth their missionaries to their benighted 
tatherland. For these condensed facts I am indebted to Rev. C. S. Renshaw, for many years a de- 
voteu mibsionary among the freedmen in Jamaica. 



17C0-1820.] cowper. 741 

Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 

An inadvertent step may crush the snail 

That crawls at evening in the public path ; 

But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, 

Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 

The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 

And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 

A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 

Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, 

The chamber, or refectory, may die : 

A necessary act incurs no blame. 

Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 

And guiltless of offence, they range the air, 

Or take their pastime in the spacious field. 

There they are privileged ; and he that hunts 

Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 

Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, 

Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 

The sum is this : If man's convenience, health, 

Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 

Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 

Else they are all — the meanest things that are— 

As free to live, and to enjoy that life, 

As God was free to form them at the first, 

Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. 

Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 

To love it too. Task > *• 560 « 

WAR. 

Some seek diversion in the tented field, 
And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, 
Kings should not play at. Nations would do well 
To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, 
Because men sutler it, their toy, the world. 



Task, v. 185. 



LIBERTY. 



'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes 
Their progress in the road of science; blinds 
The eyesight of discovery ; and begets, 
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind 
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
To be the tenant of man's noble form. 

Tatk, 



712 CCTWPER. [GEORGE III. 

THE POST-BOY. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge, 
That with its wearisome but needful length 
Bestrides the wintry flood ; in which the moon 
Sees her un wrinkled face reflected bright : — 
He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
With spatterd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks, 
News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, 
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
And having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 
Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them aft. 

Task, iv. 1. 

PLEASURES OF A WINTER EVENING. 

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
And bored with elbow points through both his sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
This folio 1 of four pages, happy work ! 
Which not even critics criticise ; that holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read, 
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break ; 
What is it but a map of busy life, 
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ' At his heels, 
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 

1 The Newspaper^ 



176.0-1820.] cowper. 743 

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 

Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 

Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 

To engross a moment's notice ; and yet begs, 

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 

However trivial all that he conceives. 

Sweet bashfulness ; it claims at least this praise: 

The dearth of information and good sense 

That it foretells us always comes to pass. 

Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 

There forests of no meaning spread the page, 

In which all comprehension wanders lost : 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, 

With merry descants on a nation's woes. 

The rest appears a wilderness of strange 

But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks 

And lilies for the brows of faded age, 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 

Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets 

Nectareous essences, Olympian dew's, 

Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs, 

^Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, 

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
To some secure and more than mortal height, 

That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
****** 

O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, 
1 crown thee King of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
Of long, uninterrupted evening, know. 
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates: 
No powder'd pert, proficient in the art 
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
Till the street rings : no stationary steeds 
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sourd, 
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake. 
But here the needle plies its busy task, 
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
Unfold' its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed; 
Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 



744 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
With most success when all besides decay. 
The poet's or historian's page, by one 
Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ; 
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out} 
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, 
And in the charming strife triumphant still, 
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
On female industry: the threaded steel 
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
* • • » * 

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? 
Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, 
The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng, 
To thaw him into feeling ; or the smart 
And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? 
The self-complacent actor when he views 
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) 
The slope of faces, from the floor to the roof, 
(As if one master-spring controll'd them all,) 
Relax'd into a universal grin, 
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy 
Half so refined or so sincere as ours. 
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks 
That idleness has ever yet contrived 
To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, 
To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. 
Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound ; 
But the world's time is Time in masquerade! 
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged 
With motley plumes ; and where the peacock shows 
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red 
With spots quadrangular of diamond form ; 
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, 
And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. 
What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, 
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace 
Well does the work of his destructive scythe. 
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blinds 
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most: 
Whose only happy, are their idle hours. 
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore 
The backstring and the bib, assume the dress 
Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school 
Of card-devoted time, and, night by night, 
Placed at some vacant corner of the board, 
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. 

Talk T. 36. 



1700 1820.] cowper. 745 

THE GUILT OF MAKING MAN PROPERTY. 

Canst thou, and honor'd with the Christian name, 
Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1 l 
Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
Expedience as a warrant for the deed 1 
So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 
To quit the forest and invade the fold ; 
So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide, 
Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
Not he, but bis emergence forced the door, 
He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
Has God then given its sweetness to the cane — 
Unless His laws be trampled on — in vain? 
Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, 
Unless His right to rule it be dismiss'd 1 
Impudent blasphemy ! So Folly pleads, 
And, Avarice being judge, with ease succeeds. 2 

TO MARY. 

Written in the autumn of 1793. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah, would that this might be the last ! 

My Mary ! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow ; 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 

My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Mary! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part; 
And all thy threads, with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary! 

1 Says the Rev. Albert Barnes, in his Inquiry into the Scriptural Views of Slavery, "There Is no power 
out of the church that could sustain slavery an hour, if it were not sustained in it." Nothing can 
be more true : and what a sad reflection it is that there can be found professed disciples of Him who 
came " to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captive, and good- will toward men," 
guilty of, or apologizing for, any practices or any systems of wrong-doing that degrade and brutalize 
their fellow-men. It is enough to make angels weep. Christianity can never fulfil its great and 
glorious design, unless those who profess it act upon its principles fully and entirely in all their re- 
lations, personal, social, business, civil, and political. What a momentous responsibility therefore, 
rests upon the members of the Christian church ! 

2 See the lines from Milton, in the note on page 280. 

63 






746 COWPEK. fGEOEGE III. 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary ! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 

My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 

Thy hands their little force resign ; 

Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, 

My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now, at every step thou movest, 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary » 

But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show, 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, 

My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 

PREACHING VS. PRACTICE. 

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd — " Oh, no 
What ! rob our good neighbor ? I pray you don't go 
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 

" You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we'll have ; 
If you will go with us, you shall have a share, 
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 

They spoke, and Tom ponder'd — " I see they will go 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, 
But staying behind will do him no good. 



1760-1820.] cowpek. 747 

'If the matter depended alone upon, me, 
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; 
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too; 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, 
And went with his comrades the apples to seize : 
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan; 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, 

Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band Captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear— 

" Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied — " I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good friend the Calender 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin — " That's well said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to t find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud 



748 COWPER. [GEORGE HL 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath, y 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again ; 

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

" The wine is left behind !" 

"Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 
And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to t rot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 



1760-1820.] cowper. 749 

So " Fair and softly," John he cried ; 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp 'd the mane with both his handa, 

And eke with all his might 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And eyery soul cried out, "Well done!" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

. » 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around — 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race 

'Tis for a thousand pound !" 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter'd at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 
63* 



750 COWPEE. [tfEOEGE IIL 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the hovise,"- 
They all aloud did cry ; 
The dinner waits, and we are tired :' 
Said Gilpin — " So am I." 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — His owner had a house 

Full ten miles off at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend's the Calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The Calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

" What news ? what news ? your tidings tell-j 

Tell me you must and shall ; 
Say why bare-headed you are come, 

Or why you come at all ?" 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke; 
And thus unto the Calender 

In merry guise he spoke : — 

" I came because your horse would come 

And, if I well forbode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here-— 

They are upon the road." 

The Calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return 'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in j 



1200-1820.] cowper. 751 

Whenoe straight he came with hat and w:g 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit : 
" My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case." 

Said John — " It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear ; \ 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
He lost them sooner than at first ; 

For why? — They were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said 

That drove them to the Bell, 
" This shall be yours when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain, 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his. rein : 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 



T52 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels, 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry : 

" Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman !" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that pass'd that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike-gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The tollmen thinking as before 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did ; and won it too ; 

For he got fust to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the king, 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 



JOHN BUNYAN. 

thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
I pleased remember, and, while memory yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word, — 
I name thee not, lest so despised a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame : 
Yet even in transitory life's late day, 
That mingles all my brown with sober gray, 
Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 
'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage 
Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age ; 
The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, 
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy; 
And not with curses on his art, who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 

Tirocinkm. 



1760-1820.] cowper. 753 

SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFOROE. 1 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 

Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 

Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. 

Friend of the. poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-galFd, 
Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. 

Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain'd the ear 
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause 5 
Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause 

And weave delay, the better hour is near 

That shall remunerate thy toils severe, 
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. 
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER S PICTURE 

that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
■ To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief; 

1 " The eloquence of Wilberforce was the voice of humanity. It was at the table of Bennet Lang- 
ton, that he made the public avowal of his sentiments upon slavery. There was something sublime 
in the spectacle of so young a man preaching a new crusade. He declared himself the advocate of a 
forsaken race; and with almost unaided arm prepared to open the gates of mercy to mankind. 
Mackintosh said that he had conferred upon the world a benefit never exceeded by human benevo- 
lence. He was neither daunted by opposition nor depressed by defeat However exhausted by the 
straggle, if he touched, in imagination at least, the ground where the ashes of the persecuted African 
reposed, his strength returned to him. The cry of blood ascended from the earth. Let his toil be 
appreciated, and his difficulties acknowledged. What others have dared in the war of arms, he 
dared in the war of opinion. He attacked the bulwarks with which avarice had fortified the cruel- 
ties of slavery ; and never yielded to the invitations of ease, until he had driven a gap into those 
barricades of iniquity. His mind seemed to dilate with the majesty of his subject His speech in 
1789 gained the applause of all who heard it; and one passage, that in which he summoned death, as 
his last witness, whose tremendous testimony was neither to be purchased nor refuted, reached the 
sublime. Burke admired it; Pitt and Fox eulogized it; and Bishop Porteus mentioned it to the poet 
Mason, in terms of still warmer praise. In him was beheld, for the first, if not for the last time, the 
noble spectacle of a man without patronage or office, to whom parliament listened with respect, and 
he country with reverence; having no friends but the good; no side but virtue."- Willmott. 

3B 



754 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun % 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;p/ 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — >>> 
Ah that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. Aj " 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber, made 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; 
All this, and more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
That humor interposed too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. 



1760-1820.] cowper. 755 

Could Time, bis flight reversed, restore the hours, 

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) 

Could those few pleasant days again appear, 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 

I would not trust my heart ; — the dear delight 

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 

But no — what here we call our life is such, 

So little to be loved, and thou so much, 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 

(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 

While airs impregnated with incense play 

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay • 

So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, 

" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;" 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 

Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss*d, 

Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 

And day by day some current's thwarting force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 

Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth, 

But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 

And now, farewell! — Time unrevoked has run 

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 

To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 

Without the sin of violating thine ; 

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 

And I can view this mimic show of thee, 

Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to his letters. These 
now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English epistolary literature. 
u There is something in the sweetness and facility of the diction, and more, 
perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevolent mind, that dif 
fuses a charm over the whole collection, and communicates an interest that 
cannot always be commanded by performances of greater dignity and jJie- 



?56 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

tension. From them we now know almost as much of Cowper as we do of 
those authors who have spent their days in the centre and glare of literary or 
fashionable society ; and they will continue to be read long after the curiosity 
is gratified to which, perhaps, they owed their first celebrity; for the character 
with which they make us acquainted, will always attract by its rarity, and 
engage by its elegance. The feminine delicacy and purity of Cowper's man- 
ners and disposition, the romantic and unbroken retirement in which his life 
was passed, and the singular gentleness and modesty of his whole character, 
disarm him of those terrors that so often shed an atmosphere of repulsion 
around the persons of celebrated writers, and make us more indulgent to his 
weaknesses, and more delighted with his excellencies, than if he had been 
the centre of a circle of wits, or the oracle of a literary confederacy. The 
interest of this picture is still further heightened by the recollection of that 
tremendous malady, to the visitations of which he was subject, and by the 
spectacle of drat perpetual conflict which was maintained, through the greater 
part of his life, between the depression of those constitutional horrors, and the 
gayety that resulted from a playful imagination, and a heart animated by the 
mildest affections." ' 

Though it is impossible to have any just conception of the fascination of 
Cowper's epistolary style without reading a large portion of his letters, yet 
some faint idea may be formed of its ease, and grace, and charming power, 
from the following, which are all that our limited space will allow. 



COWPER S AMUSEMENTS. 

To the Rev. William Unwin. 

Jhnxco Mio, September 21, 1779, 

Be pleased to buy me a glazier's diamond pencil. I have glazed 
the two panes designed to receive my pine plants ; but I cannot 
mend the kitchen windows, till, by the help of that implement, I 
can reduce the glass to its proper dimensions. If I were a plumber, 
I should be a complete glazier; and possibly the happy time may 
come, when I shall be seen trudging away to the neighboring 
towns with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. If government 
should impose another tax upon that commodity, I hardly know a 
business in which a gentleman might more successfully employ 
himself. A Chinese, of ten times my fortune, would avail him- 
self of such an opportunity without scruple ; and why should not 
I, who want money as much as any Mandarin in China ? Rous- 
seau would have been charmed to have seen me so occupied, and 
would have exclaimed with rapture, " that he had found the Emi- 
lius who (he supposed) had subsisted only in his own idea." I 
would recommend it to you to follow my example. You will pre- 
sently qualify yourself for the task, and may not only amuse your- 
self at home, but even exercise your skill in mending the church 
windows : which, as it would save money to the parish, would 

1 Edinburgh Review, vol. iv., page 2lZ. 



1760-1820.] • cowper. 757 

conduce, together with your other ministerial accomplishments, to 
make you extremely popular in the place. 

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first enter the gar- 
den in the morning, I find them perched upon a wall, waiting for 
their breakfast ; for I feed them always upon the gravel walk. If 
your wish should be accomplished, and you should find yourself 
furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly find you 
am on o-st them. Only be so good, if that should be the case, to 
announce yourself by some means or other. For I imagine your 
crop will require something better than tares to fill it. 

Your mother and I last week made a trip in a post-chaise to 
Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. He un- 
derstood that I did not much affect strange faces, and sent over 
his servant on purpose to inform me, that he was going into Lei- 
cestershire, and that if I chose to see the gardens, I might gratify 
myself without danger of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the 
invitation, and was delighted with all I found there. The situa- 
tion is happy, the gardens elegantly disposed, the hothouse in the 
most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the most captivating 
creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have 
the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whole 
scene justice. 

Our love attends you all. 
Yours. 



WRITING UPON ANY THING. 

To the Rev. Wilxiam Unwin. 

My dear Friend, Augud 6, 1780. 

You like to hear from me : this is a verjp good reason why I 
should write. But I have nothing to say; this seems equally a 
good reason why I should not. Yet, if you had alighted from 
your horse at our door this morning, and at this present writing, 
being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to 
me, — " Mr. Cowper, you have not spoken since I came in ; have 
you resolved never to speak again ?" it would be but a poor reply, 
• if, in answer to the summons, I should plead inability as" my best 
and only excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a sea- 
sonable piece of instruction, and reminds me of what I am very 
apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand, that a 
letter may be written upon any thing or nothing, just as any thing 
or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a journey before 
him, twenty miles in length, which he is to perform on foot, wilt 
not hesitate and doubt whether he shall set out or not, because he 
does not readily conceive how he shall ever reach the end of it : 
for he knows, that by the simple operation of moving one foot for- 

64 



758 cowper. [george ii: 

ward first, and then the other, he shall be sure to accomplish it 
So it is in the present case, and so it is in every similar case. A 
letter is written as a conversation is maintained, or a journey per 
formed ; not by preconcerted, or premeditated means, a new con 
trivance, or an invention never heard of before, — but merely bj- 
maintaining a progress, and resolving as a postilion does, having 
once set out, never to stop till we reach the appointed end. If a 
man may talk without thinking, why may he not write upon the 
same terms ? A grave gentleman of the last century, a tie-wig 
square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say, " My good sir, a man ha? 
no right to do either." But it is to be hoped that the present cen 
tury has nothing to do with the mouldy opinions of the last ; and 
so, good Sir Launcelot, or Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, 
step into your picture-frame again, and look as if you thought for 
another century, and leave us moderns, in the meantime, to think 
when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else we might 
as well be dead, as you are. 

When we look back upon our forefathers, we seem to look back 
upon the people of another nation, almost upon creatures of an- 
other species. Their vast rambling mansions, spacious halls, and 
painted casements, the Gothic porch smothered with honeysuckles, 
their little gardens and high walls, their box-edging, balls of holly, 
and yew-tree statues, are become so entirely unfashionable now, 
that we can hardly believe it possible, that a people who resem- 
bled us so little in their tastes, should resemble us in any thing 
else. But in every thing else, I suppose, they were our counter- 
parts exactly ; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and 
reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk-stockings, has 
left human nature just where it found it. The inside of the man, 
at ieast, has undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and 
aims, are just what they ever were. They wear, perhaps, a hand- 
somer disguise than they did in days of yore ; for philosophy and 
literature will have their effect upon the exterior ; but in every 
other respect a modern is only an ancient in a different dress. 

AN EPISTLE IN RHYME. 

To the Ret. John Newton. 1 

My very dear friend, July 12, 1781. 

I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch 
your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether 

1 " Cowper, in one of his letters, complained to Mr. Newton of the wanderings of his mind; his 
friend acknowledged a similar weakness;— 'Yes,' replied the poet, 'but you have always a serious 
thought standing at the door, like a justice of peace, with the riot-act in his hand, ready to disperse 
Hie mob.' Cowper'S correspondence with Newton presents few specimens of this delightful badi- 
nage. He loved and respected, but he also feared his friend."— WiUmott. 



11 i)0-182G. J cowpbr. 759 

what I have got, be verse or not ; by the tone and the time, it 
ought to be rhyme ; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of 
yore, such a ditty before ? The thought did occur, to me and tc 
her, as madam and I, did walk and not fly, over the hills and 
dales, with spreading sails, before it was dark to Weston Park. 

The news at Oney is little or noney ; but such as it is, I send 
it, viz. : Poor Mr. Peace cannot yet cease, addling his head with 
what you said, and has left parish-church quite in the lurch, hav- 
ing almost swore to go there no more. 

Page and his wife, that made such a strife, we met them twain 
in Dog-lane ; we gave them the wall, and that was all. For Mr. 
Scott, we have seen him not, except as he pass'd, in a wonderful 
haste, to see a friend in Silver End. Mrs. Jrnes proposes, ere 
July closes, that she and her sister, and her Jones mister, and we 
that are here, our course shall steer, to dine in tht Spinney ;* but 
for a guinea, if the weather should hold, so hot and so cold, we 
had better by far, stay where we are. For the grass there grows, 
while nobody mows, (which is very wrong,) so rank and long, that 
so to speak, 'tis at least a week, if it happens to rain, ere it dries 
again. 3 

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as 1 could, 
in hopes to do good ; and if the Reviewer should say " To be sure, 
the gentleman's Muse, wears methodist shoes ; you may know by 
her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little 
regard, for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoiden- 
ing play, of the modern day ; and though she assume a borrowed 
plume, and here and there wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan, 
to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a 
production on a new construction. She has baited her trap in 
hopes to snap all that may come, with a sugar-plum." 

His opinion in this, will not be amiss ; 'tis what I intend, 

my principal end ; and if I succeed, and folks should read, till a 
few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid, for 
all I have said and all I have done, though I have run, many a 
time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, 
and by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, 
another year. I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid 
upon springs, and such-like things, with so much art, in every 
part, that when you went in, you was forced to begin a minuet 

1 The Spinney was a delightful rural retirement— a grove— belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton of 
Weston, and about a mile from Olney. The word is used for a thicket, or clump of trees. 

2 Cowper's summer-house still exists, but his favorite Spinney was cut down in 1785. Writing to 
Newton, he said, "In one year the whole will be a thicket; that which was once the serpen tine-wn Ik 
is now in a state of transformation, and is already become as woody as the rest. Poplars and elms, 
without number, are springing in the turf. They are now as high as the knee. Before the sumroci 
in ended they will be twice as high; and the growth of another season will make them trees. Tup- 
desolation of the whole scene is such that it sunk our spirits." 



760 COWPER. [GEORGE III. 

pace, with an air and a grace, swimming' about, now in and now 
out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, 
or any such thing ; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what 
will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still 
though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till yor 
come to an end of what I have penn'd ; which that you may do 
ere madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, t take 
my leave, and here you receive a bow profound, down to tht 
ground, from your humble me, W. C. 

P. S. When I concluded, doubtless you did think me right, aa 
well you might, in sa}dng what I said of Scott ; and then it was 
true, but now it is due to him to note, that since I wrote, himself 
and he has visited me. 



EXPECTS LADY HESKETH PREPARATIONS FOR HER HIS WORKSHOP. 

Oks-ey, May 29, 1786. 
To Lady Hesketh. 

Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose letters, among all that I 
receive, have this property peculiarly their own, that I expect 
them without trembling, and never find any thing in them that 
does not give me pleasure ; for which therefore I would take 
nothing in exchange that the world could give me, save and ex- 
cept that for which I must exchange them soon, (and happy shall 
I be to do so,) your own company. That, indeed, is delayed a 
little too long ; to my impatience at least it seems so, who find the 
spring, backward as it is, too forward, because many of its beau- 
ties will have faded before you will have an opportunity to see 
them. We took our customary walk yesterday in the wilderness 
at Weston, and saw, with regret, the laburnums, syringas, and 
guelder-roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point 
of blowing, and could not help observing — All these will be gone 
before Lady Hesketh comes ! Still however there will be roses, 
and jasmine, and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool al- 
coves, and you will partake them with us. But I want you to 
have a share of every thing that is delightful here, and cannot 
bear that the advance of the season should steal away a single 
pleasure before you can come to enjoy it. 

Every day I think of you, and almost all the day long ; I will 
venture to say, that even you were never so expected in your life. 
1 called last week at the Quaker's to see the furniture of your bed, 
the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, 
of printed cotton, and the subject classical. Every morning you 
will open your eyes on Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring 
his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot for a day. May 



1760-1820.] cowper. 761 

your sleep be as sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and your 
nights at least will be well provided for. 

I shall send up the sixth and seventh books of the Iliad shortly, 
and shall address them to you. You will forward them to the 
General. I long to show you my workshop, and to see you sitting 
on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as 
two wax figures in an old-fashioned picture frame. I am writ- 
ing in it now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in 
summer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, 
that I might finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this 
day to the General. 

The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dewdrops, 
and the birds are singing in the apple trees, among the blossoms. 
Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke 
his Muse. 



TRANSLATION OF HOMER THE NONSENSE CLUB. 

To Joseph Hiix, Esq.. 

My dear friend, Omtey, June 9, 1786. 

The little time that I can devote to any other purpose than that 
of poetry is, as you may suppose, stolen. Homer is urgent. Much 
is done, but much remains undone, and no schoolboy is more at- 
tentive to the performance of his daily task than I am. You will 
therefore excuse me if at present I am both unfrequent and short. 

I had a letter some time since from your sister Fanny, that gave 
me great pleasure. Such notices from old friends are always 
pleasant, and of such pleasures I have received many lately. 
They refresh the remembrance of early days, and make me young 
again. The noble institution of the Nonsense Club will be for- 
gotten, when we are gone who composed it ; but I often think of 
your most heroic line, written at one of our meetings, and espe- 
cially think of it when I am translating Homer, — 

"To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tailed." 1 

There never was any thing more truly Grecian than that triple 
epithet, and were it possible to introduce it into either Iliad or 
Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. I am now flushed with ex- 
pectation of Lady Hesketh, who spends the summer with us. We 
hope to see her next week. We have found admirable lodgings 
both for her and her suite, and a Quaker in this town, still more 
admirable than they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, fur- 
nishes them for her with real elegance. 

1 See page 70 under " Moral Plays." 

54* 



762 COWPER. [_GEORGE III. 



ON A PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE. 1 

: How mysterious are the ways of Providence ! Why did I 
receive grace and mercy ? Why was I preserved, afflicted for 
my good, received, as I trust, into favor, and blessed with the 
greatest happiness I can ever know or hope for in this life, while 
others were overtaken by the great arrest, unawakened, unrepent 
ing, and every way unprepared for it ? His infinite wisdom, to 
whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve these questions, and 
none beside him. If I am convinced that no affliction can befall 
me without the permission, of God, I am convinced, likewise, that 
he sees and knows that I am afflicted. Believing this, I must in 
the same degree believe that, if I pray to him for deliverance, he 
hears me; I must needs know likewise with equal assurance that, 
if he hears, he will also deliver me, if that will, upon the whole, 
be most conducive to my happiness ; and if he does not deliver 
me, I may be well assured that he has none but the most benevo- 
lent intention in declining it. He made us, not because we could 
add to his happiness, which was always perfect, but that we 
might be happy ourselves ; and will he not, in all his dispensa- 
tions towards us, even in the minutest, consult that end for which 
he made us ? To suppose the contrary, is (which we are not 
always aware of) affronting every one of his attributes ; and at the 
same time the certain consequence of disbelieving his care for us 
is, that we renounce utterly our dependence upon him. In this 
view, it will appear plainly that the line of duty is not stretched 
too tight, when we are told that we ought to accept every thing 
at his hands as a blessing, and to be thankful even while we smart 
under the rod of iron with which he sometimes rules us. With- 
out this persuasion, every blessing, however we may think our- 
selves happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and every 
affliction is intolerable. Death itself must be welcome to him 
who has this faith, and he who has it not, must aim at it, if he is 
not a madman. 

1 From a letter to Lady Hesketh, dated Sept. 4, 1765. 



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